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Jet, the War -Mule, 

AND OTHER STORIES 

FOR 


BOYS AND GIRLS. 


BY 




ELLA LORAINE DORSEY, 

M 

Author of Midshipman Boh,"' Etc. 



REPRINTED FROM 

“Ave Maria.’ 




THE AVE MARIA: 

NOTRE DAME, IND. 



I 



Copyright 

by 

Rev. D. E. Hudson, C. S. C. 
1894. 


n-i/fSf 




DEDICATED 

To every one of my dear Catholic boys and girls who 
is standing, or trying to stand, guard on the Line of 
Duty. 

Heroism can be shown in small things as well as in 
great, bj^ submission as well as by action; laurels 
can be gathered elsewhere than on the field of battle, 
and immortal victories won without the shock of 
contending armies. 

So take for your motto the couplet, — 

Shoot straight, never lag, 

Serve God, defend the flag 1 
and in to win. 

May your first victory be that hardest one of all — 
victory over self ! find may the prize you win be 
more imperishable than that yielded up by the 
Jose- Maria. 


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JET, THEiWAR-MULE 

Or, 

FIVE DAYS WITH KILPATRICK. 



JET, THE WAR-MULE 


Or, Five Days with Kilpatrick. 


I. 

T hey were two very little mules to be 
turned out on a cold world ( and that in 
war times, too !), but this was the way of it. 
When they were only a few weeks old the 
gun was fired from Sumter, 

“ . . . . that echoed round the world ” ; 
and during their colthood the two great armies 
of the North and South were thundering at 
each other across the swamps, mountains and 
valleys of Virginia, down the southern length 
of the Mississippi, and fighting among the 
clouds of the Tennessee ranges. The land 
dropped blood, the earth trembled under the 
tread of marching men ; the ground was cum- 
bered with dead ; and food and forage got 
scarcer and scarcer in the wake of the corps 


8 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


and divisions of Blue and Grey that swept 
back and forth as the tide of victory or defeat 
flowed or ebbed. 

Not that this last mattered much to Ruby 
and Jet, for they were at that age when not 
even a future of plow, saddle, and harness 
could mar their fun or sober their spirits ; and 
they kicked up their heels, wagged their short, 
round tails, flapped their ears, and ran by the 
side of their patient mothers, heeding little 
and caring less for wars and rumors of wars. 
Besides, they had plenty ; for in the fertile 
region about Atlanta (fair jewel in Georgia’s 
mountain crown!) abundance reigned; and, 
except that all the men and boys marched 
away, and large requisitions for corn, grain 
and stock came more frequently from first 
one Grey General and then another, peace 
might have made her nest in the shadow of 
the city’s walls. 

But one day there arose in the northwest 
a cloud as blue as an August thunder-storm. 
On its crest played the lightning of steel ; 
from its swelling heart rolled the booming of 
artillery, and its track was marked by fierce 
flames that 

“ . . . . burnt a hole in the night,” 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


9 


as they licked and devoured store-houses, 
magazines, and munition-depots ; for Sher- 
man was marching to the sea ! 

Women and children fled before that 
mighty vanguard ; for the line of march was 
the line of battle, and for days and weeks 
every dawn saw its charge and its stand, and 
every evening its advance and retreat, as the 
blue flood rolled on toward the bluer one of 
the Atlantic water far away. 

Empty plantations were filled to overflow- 
ing one twenty-four hours, and the next 
deserted, and swept bare of forage, fowl, and 
stock. And one fine day company M, of the 
7th Pennsylvania Cavalry,* scooped” the 
two little mules near Covington, and the 
first they knew of life’s burden was when their 
fat little barrels were bestrode by two dis- 
mounted troopers, whose horses had given 
out on the ride. They were heavy, sturdy fel- 
lows, and prodded and pricked, kicked and 

* In this raid the whole of Kilpatrick’s command 
was engaged, supplemented and reinforced by the 7th 
Pennsylvania, the 4th Michigan, and the 4th “Regu- 
lars ” — as the members of the standing army are 
called — which were detached from Garrard’s Divis- 
ion, on the left of Sherman’s line; but as Jet belonged 
to Co. M of the 7th, the fortunes of that troop will be 
followed rather than those of the whole command. 


lO 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


belabored the little mules ; grumbling and 
swearing because their legs were quite too 
short, and their own quite too long. And 
how the regiment did laugh to see them drawn 
up like grasshoppers, or stubbing their toes 
so violently as almost to let their “mounts” 
walk from under them ! 

Well, here was “a pretty how-de-do” ; and 
although Ruby and Jet had never heard of 
Ko-ko (much less the Mikado)^ they felt 
strongly that it was indeed “a state of 
things ” ; and that night over their forage, 
stiff, sore, bruised, they laid their ears 
together and consulted as to what they 
should do. 

“I won’t stand it!” snorted Ruby, with 
such fury that the mouthful of oats went down 
the wrong way. “ I just won’t ! That heavy, 
two-legged brute has almost broken my back, 
and I know there are dents in my sides where 
he kicked me. I’ll bolt! No” — as Jet rolled 
his eyes at him, — “no, there’s no use talking : 
I will ; and I have half a mind to break his 
neck before I do it, too ! ” 

And every hair on his bright sorrel sides 
seemed to bristle. 

Footsteps at their backs (for they were 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


II 


picketed in a fence corner) interrupted them, 
and a tall trooper and a small, slight lad 
stopped by them. 

“O Hansel ! ain’t they cute little beasts ! 
Am I really to have one of them? ” 

“Yes. Siegel’s horse played out to-day, 
and he’ll have to get yours. He’s too long to 
mount on them things. Take your pick, and 
hurry up your cakes, for we’ve got to ride in 
three hours. You didn’t care much for that 
horse of yours anyway, did you? ” 

“ No,” said the boy. “ He travels all right, 
but he bucks like the mischief. Why, some- 
times I get all ready for the ‘Flourish,’ and 
the first thing I know he’s humping up and 
coming down so stiff on his trotters that I feel 
as if my teeth were banging into my eyeballs. 
And I’d just like to know how anybody’s 
going to blow with a horse acting like that.” 

A smile flitted over the dark, sad face of 
the soldier ; and he watched the boy kindly as 
he walked from one to the other of the mules, 
examining them critically, patting their sides, 
rubbing down their noses, and handling their 
legs. Ruby’s bright coloring seemed to catch 
his fancy ; but Ruby was bent upon being 
cross, and at every approach he laid back his 


12 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


ears, shook his fat barrel, and limbered up 
his heels as if pining for a kick. Jet, on the 
other hand, was so reminded of his young 
master, who had marched away the year 
before (although only fifteen), and had never 
come back, that he rubbed his nose against 
the blue shoulder, and wagged his ears and 
tail like a dog ; while his big, soft eyes, with 
their long thick lashes, looked straight into 
the blue ones, winking in such a funny way 
that the merry, boyish ha-ha ! rang out on the 
still night. 

“Ain’t he a dandy. Hansel? I’ll take him 
every time. ” 

And Jet was led away, without ever having 
a chance to say what he’d do at all. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


13 


II. 

H ello, Ned l where did you catch your 
Dutch canary?” one of the troop sang 
out, as he came up to the camp-fire with Jet. 

‘‘Settin’ on a rail, singing with Heintzel- 
mann’s red bird,” said the youngster, at which 
there was a shout-; for Heintzelmann was one 
of the dismounted troopers, and he sat nurs- 
ing his wrath and his aching shins near by. 

Then Oester led his new mount” to his 
own corner of the worm-fence, * got him a 
measure of oats, and fell asleep before Jet’s 
nose was fairly in the sack. Toward eleven 
o’clock he was shaken up by Black Schwartz 
(as the grave, sad Thuringian was called, to 
distinguish him from several others of the 
same name in the regiment ), and after half a 
minute of eye-rubbing, he scrambled to his 
feet and blew the Mount” till he looked 

* Throughout the South and in many places in the 
North and West these fences are in general use. 
They are made by piling rails “log-cabin ” fashion in 
zigzag. 


14 WITH KILPATRICK. 

like a cathedral cherub. The earth seemed 
to heave as the men rose, with jingling of 
sabre and spur, and rattle of carbine and can- 
teen; and in a few minutes the command was 
making at a sling trot for the railroad, where 
they hoped to cut off Hood’s supplies, and so 
force him out of Atlanta, whose frowning 
works forbade assault. 

Well, ahead went the little bugler, with 
such a light hand on the rein, knees so gently 
pressed on Jet’s sides, and with such a 
friendly twist now and then at the long, 
smooth ears that the little mule snorted as 
much like a charger as he could, and made 
his short legs fly with such speed that he still 
led when the white-faced dawn stared at them 
out of the darkness. 

Down the Sandtown road they rattled, with 
guidons flying, and spurs, sabre and carbine 
keeping up a subdued but merry trio ; the 
men joking among themselves, and every 
mother’s son of them pitying Garrard, whose 
duty kept him out of the fun. 

Suddenly a yellow ribbon of a crossroad 
sprang into sight in the growing day, lacing 
the fields and cutting the pike at a clean 
right angle ; and along that road, charging 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


15 


gallantly under the “red, white and red,” 
came the Grey-coats, yelling their war-cry, 
and wild for a brush. Their charge cut our 
line in two, and for a lively half-hour there 
was a rain of steel blows that filled the air 
with fiery sparks and flashes, and, alas ! alas ! 
sowed the field and roadway with that which 
was redder than poppies, more precious than 
fine gold — the blood of brave men in both 
armies fighting for what they believed to be 
the right cause. 

And here Ruby put in his first very bad 
conduct. When the flank charge broke our 
line he was with the advance, which pushed 
at full speed for the railroad, fighting as it 
went. Their path lay through a pine wood, 
and a bog, whose treacherous mud was 
pierced by a narrow stream. Across this last 
was laid a foot-bridge of logs, and over it 
many an iron-shod charger passed in safety; 
but Ruby — mad, excited and scared — took it 
so gingerly that he was the last of Company 
M on its traverse. Behind were three Butter- 
nuts,* flushed with success, and brandishing 

* A name given to the Confederates, because their 
homespun was colored with a dye made of butternut 
shells. 


l6 WITH KILPATRICK. 

what looked to the frightened little beast like 
an arsenal of weapons, and to his rider like 
so many passports to a variety of southern 
prisons, each more awful than the other, and 
as they pelted along, they shouted : “Halt ! 
Surrender!” But Heintzelmann shook his 
head, gave Ruby a savage prod with a pair of 
Mexican spurs he had mounted that morning, 
and laid a whistling whack along his sides 
with the flat of his sabre. 

It was the last straw — a whole bundle of 
straws ! Ruby gave a violent jump, bowed 
his back with such vigor as to burst the sur- 
cingle, and bounced into the bog ; then, with 
an adroit wriggle, he slid from under his rider 
and saddle, and bolted leaving them planti-lh, 
to the ringing amusement of friend and foe 
alike. But luck was against him evidently 
(as it is against most bolters from duty); for 
while he clattered along, free, unburdened, 
unspurred, and switching a viciously trium- 
phant tail, a dismounted trooper caught his 
trailing bridle, vaulted on his unwilling back, 
and turned his reluctant head again into the 
thick of that hateful firing, above which 
flashed the sharp, sweet calls of Oester’s 
bugle ; amd — once — resounded an awful bray. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


17 


given by Jet, when his feelings as a mule got 
the better of his dignity as a cavalry charger. 

It was full day now, and the embankment 
was won, but only for an instant ; for as our 
troopers rose on the crest they were enfiladed 
by the Grey-coats ; and as Ruby’s new rider 
brought him up to the scratch a withering 
fire raked the line. He did’t know anything 
about Shakespeare, but he felt strongly the 
advisability of doing quickly and at once 
what he thought it*%ell to do ; so he wheeled 
and sprang straight off of the embankment — 
a sheer fall of ten feet, — rolled over in the 
thick sand two or three times, and took up a 
beeline for the home ! 



i8 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


III. 

ELL, ” grumbled his astonished rider, 
V V as he scrambled to his feet, “that’s 
07 ie way of dismounting that’s not down in the 
tactics, and I must say I don’t want to intro- 
duce it. Confound the brute ! look how he 
skedaddles ! ” * 

And he gazed ruefully at the rapidly-van- 
ishing speck, so like a pincushion, with four 
legs waving wildly in the air. 

But there was no time for comments. The 
Grey-coats rushed along like a sand-storm ; 
and it was every man for himself, and then a 
long detour to join the other half of the regi- 
ment. Then came a rest? Not a bit of it ! 
There was a pause long enough to take 
account of stock, catch fresh “mounts,” 
tighten belts, gnaw a piece of hard-tack and 
nibble a bit of bacon ; and then it was 
“Forward ! ” till about 2 o’clock in the after- 

* A word which I am assured has a pure Greek 
origin, and meaning in army circles to run. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


19 


noon, when the advance-guard of the 7th col- 
lided with the advance-guard of the enemy — 
massed in the woods — to beat them back 
from Jonesborough, where enormous sup- 
plies were stored, and where the first serious 
blow of the raid was to be struck. 

As the first shot began to fall, like the 
heavy advance-drops of a summer rain, Hart- 
mann suddenly turned to his right-hand 
neighbor and said, abruptly (of all things in 
the world) : 

‘‘I thought there were mocking-birds sing- 
ing all around in the South.” 

‘‘Mocking-birds, is it?” echoed the rollick- 
ing Irishman. “Well, maybe. But — glory 
to God ! — it’s the blackbirds ye’ll hear sing 
this day. Listen to ’em whistle. Good-after- 
noon to ye ! ” he said, doffing his cap, and 
bobbing his close-cropped head politely, as 
the minie and rifle balls whizzed past. 

“Hello, Ainsworth!” he shouted to a 
young soldier in Company L — a guidon — who 
sat looking anxiously, but fearlessly, ahead. 
“What’s the matter? Ye look as solemn as 
if the fight was off. But be easy, my boy, and 
cheer up; for there’s lashin’s of ‘Johnnies’ 
ahead. Whoopi” 


20 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


And he bounced in his saddle, his eyes 
dancing and his mouth one broad grin ; for 
O’Keefe would rather fight than eat his dinner 
any day. 

“All right,” said Ainsworth, and a laugh 
chased the gravity from his face for a moment ; 
then, as the regimental bugler — a swarthy 
Indian, with streaming elf-locks and wolfish 
eyes — raised his bugle toward his lips, he 
ranged up to Oester, laid his hand on the 
peak of the boy’s saddle and spoke earnestly 
to him for a few moments, handing him a 
small package as he did so, and then rode off, 
leading his squad. 

Oester looked puzzled ; and O’Keefe, as he 
came abreast him, said : 

“A good boy, that Ainsworth ; but did ye 
ever see such a solemn face? Looks for all 
the world as if he was making his will, and 
leaving his money to relations he didn’t like, 
ava. ” 

“ Now,” answered the boy, “that’s down- 
right queer, O’Keefe. It’s just about what 
he has been doing — making his will, I mean. 
He says he’s going to be shot in this charge, 
that he’ll be hit right here ” (touching his 
forehead) ; “that he’ll be killed outright, and 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


21 


maybe we’ll miss his body in the confusion ; 
and as he wants his mother to have all his 
valuables and this, he’s given ’em to me to 
give to the Colonel. If / get bowled over — ” 

‘<Oh, shut up!” said O’Keefe, brusquely; 
for he liked the boy, and — a true Celt — he 
was disagreeably impressed by a forecasting. 

‘‘ Don’t you think maybe there is something 
in it ? ” asked the lad, his candid blue eyes 
thoughtfully raised to the pugnacious face, 
just now puckered with passing annoyance. 

*‘No; I don’t that! Ye are both goin’ to 
live to be killed a dozen times over — ” 

Tarantara-tara-tara ! ” suddenly rang the 
“charge” on ahead. Oester’s bugle caught 
it up and sent it flying along the line ; and the 
blue wave gathered, rolled, and broke against 
the barricade of rails, underbrush and felled 
timber, behind which crouched the fiery 
Death. It was clatter and rush, crash of 
rider and steed, shock of steel, and fall of 
horse and man. Then the barricade was car- 
ried, and Kilpatrick and his men went 
streaming down the river-bank to meet — 
flames ! 

The Grey-coats had fired the bridge ; and 
as they vanished in the trees beyond, the 


22 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


shriek of shells began to pierce the air, and a 
mighty bad twenty minutes our men put in ; 
for the Grey cannoneers had an uncommonly 
neat idea of a range, and grape and canister 
did awful work. But there was no loiter- 
ing or seeking for shelter ; for while one 
detachment put out the fire, another cut, 
dressed and hauled logs, and still another 
began to repair the old bridge, and lay a new 
one on the few pontoons the command had 
with them. 

During the rush O’Keefe was here, there, 
and everywhere (of course), expending the 
strength of ten men, and doing the work of 
half a one ; and once, as he passed Hart- 
mann, he shouted : 

“How d’ye like these mocking-birds, me 
boy ! And isn’t it good lungs they’ve got 
and sweet voices? D’ye mind the neat little 
rhyme the childer say to the star ? We’ll be 
givin’ it a new turn. I’m thinkin’ : 

“ ‘ Twinkle, twinkle, little shell. 

How I hate to hear ye yell ! 

To my head ye’re quite too nigh. 

I wish ye’d stay up in the sky.’ ” 

And on he rode, with a laugh that was a 
tonic, and was among the first of the com* 


WITH KILPATRICK. 23 

mand that rushed into the teeth of the shell- 
ing batteries, with a shout that presaged 
victory. 

But back yonder among the torn turf, the 
trampled shrubbery and the wreck of the 
scattered barricade, with his face turned sky- 
ward and a smile on his quiet lips, lay Ains- 
worth dead his forehead pierced by the 
bullet he had ridden out to meet.* 

* This presentiment and death are true incidents. 




24 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


IV. 

T hrough the long afternoon the fight 
ran its length, but every hour brought 
our men nearer their objective point, and at 
7 o’clock the Stars and Stripes swept into the 
little town of Jonesborough. Detachments 
were told off to fire the store, but the majority 
of the tired men rolled from their horses, many 
of them falling asleep instantly, others smok- 
ing, others tying up barked” legs and arms, 
others chewing their quids and ‘‘swearing 
strange oaths ” as they fought the day over ; 
and the regimental cooks boiled coffee and 
made savory messes of pork, hard-tack, and 
beans flavored with gunpowder — which, by 
the way, is a very fair substitute for salt 
when you can’t do any better. It was up to a 
group thus clustered about one of these ket- 
tles that Oester trotted, slipping off his little 
black steed to give him a moment of much- 
needed rest. 

“Where’s Schwartz?” he asked excitedly. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


25 

<‘What Schwartz?” answered Skelton 
lazily, as he stirred his loblolly with a stick. 
“If it’s Towhead, yonder he lies” — pointing 
to a young soldier, whose close-curling blonde 
hair, white forehead, and peaceful, sleeping 
figure contrasted strongly with his sunburnt 
— sun- blistered — features (which were grimed 
with powder), and his torn, stained uniform. 
“ If it’s the Grey- Rat, yonder he is ” — waving 
the dripping stick toward a fierce-eyed, 
shock-headed, elderly man, who came toward 
them, bending under a load of forage. “If 
it’s—” 

“No, no!” said the boy, stamping in his 
eagerness ; “ I mean Black Schwartz.” 

“Oh, him!” said Skelton, gravely. “I 
ain’t seen him since the last brush out yonder, 
and I think likely he’s there somewheres.” 

“Killed!” exclaimed Oester, with quiver- 
ing lips. “Don’t say that, Skelton; don’t!” 

“Well, but what else can I say? ” — Skelton 
was literal. — “If he hadn’t been, he’d have 
been in long ago. ” 

“Maybe he’s only wounded. I’m going 
out to see.” 

“Yes, and*'be gobbled up by the Johnnies 
for a fool ! ” growled Skelton, returning to 


26 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


his Stew. “You never can tell where them 
chaps’ll turn up. There’s one thing you can 
bet on, though ; and that is, you’ll find ’em 
when you don’t want ’em, and where you 
don’t expect ’em. Besides lookin’ for a 
wounded man in this here light is crazier 
than huntin’ needles in a haystack.” 

But the boy had braced his belt, looked to 
his saddle- straps, and was off long before his 
friend had finished. 

“Well,” gasped Skelton, “of all the 
young idjits ever I see ! A pair of mules as 
beats creation ! ” 

But the canny little beast and his anxious 
young rider were winding in and out the 
underbrush, warily, keeping a bright lookout 
for the enemy that didn’t come, and stumbling 
at last upon the object of their search, who 
sat leaning against a tree, one bony hand 
twisted in the grass, its fingers clutching at 
the earth in agony ; the other pressed to his 
breast, over a red spot that spread and spread 
on the blue coat. 

“ O Hansel ! I am so glad I’ve found you ! ” 
cried the boy. “ We’ve come out to take you 
into the lines, haven’t we. Jet?” And Jet 
wagged his ears, and pawed with his slender 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


27 


hoofs, as if eager to do his half of the labor of 
love, although he ached smartly from tip to tail. 

Schwartz smiled half tenderly, half sadly. 
“No, lad: I’ve got my discharge. Death’s 
white horse is the one I’ll ride to-night.” 

“What do you mean. Hansel? Oh! you 
ain’t as much hurt as that ! It’s — it’s — such 
a little place 1 ” 

“ Big enough for my soul to slip through.” 

The tears sprang to Oester’s blue eyes, and 
a lump rose in his throat. “ You mustn’t die 
— you sha’n’t die 1 Let me go back for the 
doctor. He’ll be sure to patch you up.” 

“ No : stay here. It won’t be long ; it’s bet- 
ter so. I’m glad. Use and the child are 
there, and it’s been long to wait.” 

“But, Hansel, dear Hansel, I must do 
something for you. Isn’t there ^^ything you 
want? It’s awful to be doing nothing!’’ 
And he sobbed openly, too grieved even to 
try to hide it. 

“Scratch a hole in the ground for me if 
you can, and cover me away from the buz- 
zards. Put this in my hands. Keep the 
medal for yourself. I wish to God I could 
have the Sacraments ! It’s an awful thing to 


28 


WITH KILPATRICK 


go red-handed before His face. ^Heilige, 
Maria, bitte fur uns! ’ ” 

“This” was a rosary, black, well-worn, 
and shining. 

“Read the prayer on the medal as often as 
you can. Promise” — and the nervous fin- 
gers clutched his hand. “And say a ^Hail 
Mary’ for me every day. It’ll do you good, 
and God knows how it will help me! ” 

“I will! I will!” cried the boy. “But I 
don’t know the last one. Say it once, and 
I’ll try to remember.” 

And Schwartz gasped out the dear prayer, 
the blood spurting between like pulse-beats. 
Then his voice died away, and he lay back, 
with strange, grey shadows creeping under 
his eyes and around his mouth. Once he 
opened his heavy lids, and looked with 
startled gaze at the red glare that stained the 
night like a gaping wound. 

“Morning! Why doesn’t the boy sound 
the reveilli? The night is over — the night is 
over and gone. Death — what is it? Death 
is swallowed up in victory. A victory? Is 
it blood I see creeping up and spreading like 
a lake?” 

“It’s the fire iii the town back there, 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


29 


Hansel. They’re burning up the stores.” 

“ Fire ! What fire? — Ah ! I know : the fire 
of the red dawn, when men shall be judged — 

“ ‘ In the red dawn 

Of the Judgment morn, 

Mary, remember me.’ ” 

Then muttering, “Christ of the Cross, for- 
give ! ” his voice again sank into silence. 

The minutes hurried by, and the shy, wild 
things of the forest began to peep out ; a 
snake or two trailed its bronze length past, 
and here and there a crippled bird cried into 
the night. Suddenly Schwartz sat erect. 
“Here!” he answered to some inaudible 
roll-call, and — was dead. 

For a few minutes the boy sat stunned. It 
was all so different from a death on the field, 
with the music of the charge cutting sweet 
and shrill through the rattle of musketry and 
roar of artillery, the mad hurrahing of the 
men, and the rush of half-frantic horses. 

Then Jet, who had watched' him uneasily, 
came and took him by the jacket sleeve, and 
gently pulled it once or twice. Oester looked 
up, and, throwing his arms around the little 
mule’s neck, cried : “ O Jet ! I did love him ! 

Poor, poor fellow ! ” 


30 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


But the haste and stress of war were on 
him ; and, with the speed so horrible where 
we love, he began to dig his friend’s grave, 
tearing up the turf and soft mould with the 
dead man’s sabre, and digging with his tin 
plate and hands. Then he laid him in the 
shallow, rudely-hollowed trench ; and, racked 
and shaken by the struggle, fell on his knees 
to cover up the kind face, with its open eyes 
and yet warm cheeks. 

How long he crouched there he did not 
know, but heavy wings beat the air above 
him, and slowly circling nearer and nearer 
drew a buzzard — vilest of birds — its raw, red 
neck eagerly stretched, its harsh cry filling 
the spot with unseemly clamor. 

This decided him ; and hastily catching up 
the softest patch of moss he could find, he 
laid it (earth out) on the dead face, filled in 
the grave, and, in a sudden flash of wrath 
and grief, shot the bird with Schwartz’s car- 
bine as he hurried away. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


31 


V. 

A s Oester and Jet stumbled back to the 
lines, depressed and exhausted, a great 
cheering and shouting arose, mingled with 
the strains of brass and silver, the short bark 
of bass drums, and the clash of cymbals. 

And what were the bands playing? 

Why, from the Grey camp floated the notes 
of ‘‘The Star-Spangled Banner,” which the 
loyal Blue applauded to the echo (roaring the 
chorus until the forest trembled), and to 
which they responded by the rollicking 
strains of “Dixie.” Then the Grey camp 
lifted up its voice in a deep-throated roar of 
applause ; and when that subsided their 
bandsmen blew back “ The Red, White and 
Blue,” which was answered by “Maryland, 
My Maryland ! ” and so on, with sometimes 
mingled choruses that came from neither 
Yankees nor Rebels, but from the brave 
hearts of American men glorying in one 
another’s bravery, and ready to snatch the 


32 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


red rose of national pride from the bloody 
field of the day just past and the day yet to 
come — also ready to pitch in and whack one 
another soundly as soon as the occasion 
offered. * 

Louder grew the songs and higher burnt 
the flames till midnight, when the one died 
to echoes and the other to ashes ; and 

Boots and Saddles!” “Mount!” and 
“Forward!” followed in rapid succession; 
and before the new day was half an hour old 
the command was tearing at full gallop 
toward Lovejoy Station. Like young Loch- 
invar, 

“ They stopped not for brake, 

They stayed not for stone ; 

They swam (every) river 
Where ford there was none.” 

And what a ride was that ! The equinox 
was on, and the storm had burst about one 
o’clock. The water fell in solid sheets, and 
every “creek,” “run,” and “branch” on the 
route lifted up a threatening voice as it 
dashed, swollen and turbid, through its nar- 
row stony bed. The trees groaned and bent 
in the wind, and tossed wet, spiteful branches 

* This beautiful and graceful incident is strictly 
true, as are all our citations of military movements. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


33 


in the faces of the riders, sometimes giving 
ugly blows; for the blackness was Egyptian, 
and time was too precious to pick the way. 
There it was that Jet and his master got full 
benefit of their small stature and light weight; 
for the wee beast ran under the hanging 
boughs, Oester lying low on his neck; and as 
they raced along both were too plucky to 
notice the sharp, scoring scratches given by 
blackberry, raspberry and cat-vines. 

It was a sorry-looking command when the 
day broke — sodden, bareheaded, cut and 
bruised, haggard with want of sleep, pale 
with fatigue, and many a good uniform look- 
ing like the ‘^rags and jags” worn by the 
beggars that come to town in Mother Goose’s 
ballad. 

‘‘Rents, is it?” said O’Keefe, with his jolly 
laugh. “Well, then, / should be callin’ ’em 
ra^/^-rentsl ” 

But the men were in high spirits, and when 
the bugles called “Halt!” they hardly waited 
for the steaming black coffee that their wise 
young commander gave them time to make 
and take. It had its effect, though; and 
horses and riders found that courage and 
patriotism are never the worse for a judicious 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


34 

mixture therewith of forage and rations, and 
the pace was decidedly mended after the 
brief rest. 

As the column thundered down the high- 
road, Oester thought of his promise to Black 
Schwartz ; and, being a boy of his word, he 
took out the medal to look at it and read the 
prayer. On its oval he saw a woman’s figure 
with outstretched hands, and ellipse of stars 
about her ( like the statue of Our Lady at 
Notre Dame), a globe-segment under her 
feet, and crushed thereon a serpent. Out- 
side the stars ran the words: <‘0 Mary! 
conceived without sin, pray for us who have 
recourse to thee.” 

As he looked at it, Denbigh — a rough-and- 
ready fellow — sang out: “What you got 
there, younker?” 

“A medal Schwartz gave me.” 

“What sort of a medal? Let’s look.” 

But the boy, from some instinct, put it in 
his breast saying: “Some sort of religious 
medal, I think.” 

“Religious? Bah, I thought sol That 
Schwartz was the biggest sneak I ever saw — 
a Catholic he called himself, but I know the 
breed — liars and hypocrites every one of ’em; 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


35 


chockful of superstitions, too ; a low, priest- 
ridden lot, with a carpenter’s Son for a God, 
and a fisherman for the head of their 
Church.” 

Halloo there ! ” said O’Keefe. “ What’s 
all that? Who is it that are liars, and priest- 
ridden, and idolaters into the bargain? ” 

Oester’s face was scarlet. “ I don’t ‘know 
anything about Catholics,” he said; “but I 
tell you Schwartz was one of the best men I 
ever saw. He hadn’t a low grain in his body, 
and was the most truthful man in the world. 
You are the liar and sneak, Denbigh, and a 
coward too, to fling out like that at a dead 
man that can’t fight for himself.” 

Denbigh’s coarse face grew purple, and he 
struck at the boy furiously. “You young 
hound ! ” he snarled ; “ I’ll give you the best 
tanning you ever got, the first chance I 
have.” 

But O’Keefe, with his hat set jauntily on 
one side, his right fist poised daintily on his 
hip, and with a gleam in his Irish eyes, said : 
“Leave the kid, and listen to me, my boy. 
Will ye have the goodness to repeat that 
little speech of yours, and answer me ques- 
tion, if you please?” 


36 


V/ITH KILPATRICK. 


But Denbigh, knowing the weight of 
O’Keefe’s arm, and not in the least deceived 
by his genial smile, muttered an ugly word, 
and sullenly looked straight ahead. 

‘‘Do now,” continued the Irishman per- 
suasively \ do. It will be safer, for ye seem 
to have a poor circulation the morn. Your 
face is as purple as a plum, and I’m thinkin’ 
you’ll be havin’ a fit or something; if you 
cork your feelings up so sudden. And I tell 
you” — his anger flashing out — “I’m achin’ 
to give you a warmin’ that you’ll remember 
to your dyin’ hour, you ill-conditioned brute ! 
— yappin at good and holy things, for all the 
world like a mad-dog bayin’ at the moon ! ” 
“Silence in the ranks there!” said the 
sergeant, and O’Keefe had to carry on his 
contention by looks, which he did con amore 
in a series of darting glances sharp as 
stilettos, and highly exasperating to their 
object. 

At his first chance he asked Oester .what 
was the row, and when the boy told him he 
said : “And so he is dead 1 Well, God rest 
his soul, and give me grace to die as well 1 
And he left you the medal? ” 

“Yes, and what does that saying mean?” 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


37 


*‘lt means that Mary, the great Mother of 
God ” (and the cap was reverently lifted from 
the bullet head), ‘‘was never touched with sin, 
but was born free from the curse of Adam.” 

“ How do you know it? ” and the blue eyes 
looked searchingly into the grey. 

“Know it? For one thing, me Church 
teaches it, and the Church of God don’t lie ; 
and for another, me common sense tells me 
it has to be so.” 

“My common sense don’t,” struck in 
Beltzhoover, whom a shift in formation had 
brought alongside. 

“Don’t it now?” said O’Keefe, admiringly. 
“Well, your parsons do be sayin’, ‘The age 
of miracles is past.’ But try and stretch 
your wool-sack enough to sense this : It 
would have been mighty unbecomin’ and 
unnatural for God to have let His Blessed 
Mother be for a minute in the grip of the 
ould devil, as She would have been if She’d 
had original sin. Why, man. He /ove^ Her ; 
don’t you know that? Think what that 
means, if you have a mother yourself, and 
then size up what the Lord could feel.” 

“Oh, come now !” said Beltzhoover, look- 
ing rather startled, “that’s downright bias- 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


38 

phemy to talk in that free-and-easy way 
about the Lord, as if He was just folks.” 

“ It ain’t either ! ” retorted O’Keefe ; “ for 
He was true God and true Man. But ” — he 
broke off — “what’s that now?” as the com- 
manding notes of the “Halt” sprang from 
bugle to bugle, and the line pulled up, with a 
great ringing of spurs and accoutrements, 
and much stamping of horses. 

“ D’you see any Grey-backs?” he called 
out to Oester. 

The boy shook his head, then said : “ But 

there’s something ahead there in the woods. 
By George ! ” he added, in sudden excite- 
ment, “I tell you that chap had better get 
out of the way ” — waving his bugle toward a 
slender, plainly-dressed young man, who rode 
leisurely along, skirting the trees, trotting 
from point to point, and taking an exhaustive 
survey of the situation. “The first thing he 
knows he’ll be nowhere. Who is the little 
fool, anyway?” he asked impatiently. 

O’Keefe’s answer was a shout: “Ain’t 
that a good one now? ^ The little fool ’ ! 
Why, it’s ‘ Kil ’ [Kilpatrick] himself ! ” 

“ The General ! He looks like a boy, and 
hasn’t enough gold lace to — ” 


WITH KILPATRICK. 39 

“Dress out a second leftenant? That’s 
him to a T. No fuss, no feathers, no blather- 
skiting. Ah ! he’s the boy ! It’s never ‘Go ! ’ 
with Kil ; it’s always ‘ Come on, boys ! ’ and 
him ahead in the thick of the shindig. 
That’s for the advance. When it’s retreating 
we are, that’s another story ; then he’s the 
last man — Dismount, is it? ” — as the famil- 
iar notes flew into the air like a flock of birds 
startled by a hunter. “With all the pleas- 
ure in life. A fourth man?* Who said that? 
It’s him that lied, then ; for into this fight I’m 
goin’.” And he dexterously pushed in 
between the two men ahead of him, tossed 
his bridle to the nearest, and was yards away 
in a twinkling. 

* In ordinary cases, when cavalry is dismounted 
for fighting on foot, every fourth man is detailed to 
stay in the rear ajid hold the riderless horses ; when 
it is desired to engage the majority of the force, 
every seventh man is so detailed. 


40 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


VI. 

T hat was a day, and grey indeed must be 
the head (grey even with the ashes of 
oblivion) and cold the heart that does not 
recall its dash, its trium,ph, its rout, its valor, 
its glorious. ending. 

When the 7th pushed forward afoot. Love- 
joy was only separated from it by a belt of 
forest. Beyond these trees lay the railroad, 
and the destruction of that railroad meant ful- 
filling the object of the raid, and opening the 
gate to the sea. So it was with light hearts 
and a joyous shout that the 7th and its com- 
panion regiments pelted down the slope, and 
— into the arms of the enemy. 

Under the shadow of the great oaks the 
Grey line sprang into sight and life, and a 
leaden hail pattered through the grove, bullets 
finding billets in the trunks of men and trees 
alike. But the Blue line advanced steadily 
through it, their seven-barrelled Spencers (car- 
bines) belching out such irresistible arguments 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


41 


that the Grey horse (for the Confederate 
advance was mounted) drew off — but slowly, 
and contesting every foot of the way, — and 
finally swept over the railroad track, beyond 
which they again made a stand. 

At the sight of the track, ‘‘the main artery 
of Atlanta,” strained muscles limbered, tired 
backs dropped their fatigue, stiff legs grew 
flexible, and at a double quick our boys 
charged on it, tearing it up and scattering it 
far and wide. 

But, oh ! dear, such a surprise party as they 
had ! The night before, by the light of the 
burning stores at Jonesborough, dashing Pat 
Claiburn and his veterans poured out of 
Atlanta ; and hardly had the boys in Blue been 
five minutes at the work, when he pounced 
upon them, and in all too short a time was 
driving them back in a confused mass toward 
the main-road. 

Helter-skelter they went, and, bursting 
through the trees, nearly stamped the lead- 
horses ; while Kilpatrick stormed up and down 
the line of retreat, trying to stop the rout, 
and the wild yell of the Grey-coats made the 
very air pulsate. 

With loss of breath came return of common 


42 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


sense, and with that a halting, and an attempt 
to stand and re-form. And as the Chicago 
Board of Trade Battery swung around to the 
front, wheeling its glittering pieces through 
the green corn that bordered the main-road, 
and quietly beginning to unlimber and load in 
the very teeth of the enemy, every man felt it 
was giving him the chance he wanted to up 
and at ’em again.” 

From the six bonnie guns of the Illinois 
men grape and canister began to fly, and the 
corn was reaped with a sickle whose edge was 
flame and whose stroke was death; but the 
Grey-coats threw themselves against the wall 
of fire again and again, until their ranks were 
plowed with lines of blood. Then there was 
a pause in the attack, and our boys, having 
shaken themselves out of the tangle and coil 
of the semi-stampede, began a struggle for 
some form of regimental formation; the officers 
meantime holding a hasty council as to what 
answer should be returned to the summons 
to surrender sent in by Clairburn with a flag 
of truce. 

Some of them advised for it, because the 
Grey line curved like a crescent about the 
Blue, its horns drawing closer and closer; it 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


43 


was an enemy’s country they were in, and hon- 
orable terms were offered. But Kilpatrick 
was dead against it, and, as the majority went 
with him, the white flag fluttered back. 

As quick a thinker as he was a charger, the 
young general had planned his cutting out 
before the Grey messenger had reached his 
commanding officer with his refusal. The men 
were deployed in an open field some three 
hundred yards back ; every eighth man was 
told off to hold seven horses, and orders were 
given to dismount and charge on foot. But 
as the line formed, an eldritch screech rent 
the air, and sharpnel began to drop in the 
ranks. Two batteries had opened in the rear. 
Our boys were sa'ndwiched, outflanked, sur- 
rounded ! 

A second council was held. To cut through 
was now imperative, and Colonel Minty * 
volunteered to lead the charge. Kilpatrick’s 
grey eyes blazed ; here was a man after his own 
heart ! A few hasty words were exchanged, 
and the brigade was ordered into the field of 
broom-corn that stretched to the right, 
glistening in the sunshine, and tossing its 

*Of the 4th Michigan, the regiment that afterward 
captured Jefferson Davis. 


44 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


brown tassels haughtily as the horses thrust 
in among its towering stalks (it stood nine or 
ten feet high). 

In a few minutes the troops were in posi- 
tion, and every man took his horse in a firmer 
grip between his knees, and every heart beat 
as the dismounted troopers * marched for- 
ward, and began to throw down the panels of 
the fence to clear the way for the charge. 

Ahead was an open field, gashed and cut 
into gullies by the wash-outs of years; over it 
the shells were shrieking and bursting, and 
beyond it was a barricade of rails and earth, 
behind which were a force of dismounted cav- 
alry and a battery, the latter trained so as to 
sweep the plain in a bee-line f with our troops. 
A flourish of trumpets announced ready,” 
and Kilpatrick, seizing his Division flag,J 


* Every fourth man this time. These had to watch 
their chance as the charge rushed by, and grab at 
their horses, mounting on the gallop. 

f In the South — and I suppose elsewhere — when 
bees have gathered their allotment of honey, they 
take up a line so straight and direct for their hives 
that the people use the expression “bee-line” to 
indicate the shortest route to a given place. 

f This flag, I am told, was presented to him by his 
wife; he loved it next to the honor of his Division, 
and guarded both with equal care. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 45 

ordereti the “charge,” and rushed forward 
like a thunderbolt. 

From the broom-corn came a dazzling flash 
as the sabres were drawn and tossed aloft, 
and there was a noise 

“ like the rushing of a mighty wind ” ; 

and the corn lay low as the command, with 
resounding throats and an awful sound of 
trampling hoofs, stretched at full gallop after 
him. 

What a fight it was ! The two lines 
crashed together with a shock audible above 
the roar of the cannon, and plunged and 
swayed like St. George’s dragon, the Grey 
melting into the Blue, the Blue wedging into 
the Grey ; small detached groups drifted 
“hither and yon,” fighting like wildcats, with 
clubbed carbines, bare hands, or sabres that 
shore brain-pans and lopped off sword-arms, 
to the accompaniment of savage shouts or 
grim silence, according to the deadliness of 
struggle ; and the uproar of bursting .shells 
and the death-scream of rider and horse, as 
grape and canister replaced the shells and 
began to scatter ruin in their path, made it 
something to remember 


46 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


“ Till the sun grows cold, 

And the stars are old, 

And the leaves of the Judgment book unfold,” 

as the Bedouin song puts it. 

It was a crucial time for Jet and his mas- 
ter — especially Jet ; for he saw at this juncture 
a sight so appalling to him that he nearly for- 
got his duty, and quite lost the stiffness of his 
upper lip for several minutes. 

Trotting hard after the charging men came 
the camp-mules and the ambulances (for it 
was sauve qui pent, and no ‘‘safety in the 
rear,” — in fact, there wasn’t any rear to 
speak of); and one of the former, a veteran 
named “Tommy,” was leading the way with 
his accustomed dignity and indifference to 
danger. On his back were eight large camp- 
kettles, and hanging from these were coffee- 
pots and “ spiders ” ad libitum. 

About midway the field, a shell came howl- 
ing along, with a voice so particularly awful 
that he halted a second, looked up, and shook 
his head — was it instinct ? — and just as he 
looked down again it fell right on top of the 
highest kettle. 

There was a sound like the bursting of a 
nine-inch gun, an appalling scattering of iron 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


47 


fragments, hoofs, and coffee-pots ; and then 
Jet shut his eyes and quaked like a mound of 
jelly. He might have rolled over but for 
Oester’s cry of dismay, and the sudden blow- 
ing of the call to ^‘church.” 

“Church!” It wasn’t Sunday, no chapels 
were handy; and, although Jet was not up to 
every cavalry eccentricity, he felt pretty sure 
no one would try “open-air service” in a 
mess like this ; but there was the call, and 
crowding on its echoing notes came the most 
stirring call of all : “To the colors ! to the 
colors! taran — tara — tara — tara ! ” Then 
there was a fresh burst of speed from a squad 
of men, a mad whirling around the regi- 
mental flag, and a cheering that roused his 
curiosity in spite of the sinking sensation that 
ran through his barrel and quivered in his 
hamstrings. 

What had happened was this : the color- 
bearer, in his eagerness to reach the barri- 
cade, had got so far ahead that a squad of 
Grey-coats had swarmed out and were doing 
their level best to tear him from his horse, 
and so pluck the flag away from him. His 
hat was off, his eyes half blinded by the blood 
from a cut across his head ; and when Oester 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


48 

spied him he was clinging to the colors might 
and main, with arm, hand, leg, and teeth, 
and was fighting like mad. The boy’s heart 
seemed to stand for an instant, and then the 
blood flashed through his veins like fire. 
What should he do ? 

The biggest man in the regiment was the 
Sergeant-Major — Hamilton Church; he was 
a stern disciplinarian, and Oester knew that 
in the very act of dying he would resent any 
deviation from routine or discipline — hence 
his musical pun, or play on the name. Sure 
enough, as the call reached his ears. Church 
turned with a black frown, and saw the little 
bugler’s arm waving like a wind-mill toward 
the color-bearer; at the same instant ‘‘To 
the colors ! ” tore through the air, and in a 
few minutes he was off to the rescue with a 
squad at his back. And none too soon ; for 
the bearer’s sword-arm was severed, a bullet 
entered his breast, and as Church snatched at 
the drooping staff the youth fell dead, with a 
smile on his beardless lips, and a flash of joy 
in his dying eyes that held Death’s film at bay. 

It all did not take five minutes, and hap- 
pened while the Blue line was still rolling 
down on the barricade. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


49 


When the Bunker-Hill range was reached 
(that is, when the opponents could see the 
color of one another’s eyes), the Grey can- 
noneers gave a last broadside, threw down 
their rammers, sponges and ammunition, and 
fled. All except one man, a young Lieuten- 
ant* — a mere boy, — who stood by his gun, 
loading and firing with a courage so superb, a 
coolness so admirable, that Minty’s command 
“ to spare his life, for a man like that was too 
brave to lose,” did not need to be repeated to 
our men, who cheered him enthusiastically, 
even as they spiked the piece he had served 
so grandly, f 

‘‘Ah !” thought Jet, as he wheezed along, 
“Ruby was wiser. I’m afraid. Here he is 
safe at home, and I’m in a whirlpool of 
destruction I don’t like it — I hate it, in 
fact ; and I believe I — I wonder if I am going 
to bolt ? ” for the heart of the little mule was 
as water within him. 

* I have never been able to learn his name, and 
would feel grateful to any of my readers who could 
give it. 

f A similar gallant act was done by Lieutenant 
Van Pelt, of Loomis’ Battery (Michigan), at Chicka- 
mauga; and a similar command was given by the 
Confederate commander, but the gallant youth was 
killed by a stray shot before he could be captured. 


50 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


But as the breathless rush subsided some- 
what, a boyish hand was run down his 
streaming neck, and two boyish lips whis- 
pered in his long ears: “You darling! 
There isn’t a horse in the troop can beat you. 
And Kil himself ain’t pluckier.” 

Well, after that he just made up his mind 
he’d go until he dropped ; and, unless his legs 
actually and uncontrollably ran away with 
him, he would stay with Company M, no 
• matter what happened. And I can tell you 
that, after such an experience, that was being 
a hero indeed. 



r 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


51 


VIL 

A S the Blue horse swarmed in over the 
breastworks, spiking and dismounting 
the guns, the Greys threw drown their arms, 
and tossed up their hands in token of sur- 
render; but prisoners were the last thing our 
boys wanted, their one object being to break 
through that narrow circle Pat Clairburn’s 
generalship had drawn about them, so they 
held their headlong course. Seeing this, the 
Grey-coats quickly picked up their muskets, 
rifles, and carbines, and began potting them 
from the rear, — a little game they kept up 
with spirit and enjoyment, until a charge at 
their backs of the Ohio Brigade diverted their 
attention in a way at once forcible and un- 
pleasant. 

And now the field of battle presented a 
spectacle very like a famous picture of France 
and England comparing notes on the Franco- 


52 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


Chinese and the Anglo-Egyptian campaigns.* 
Our boys were bursting through the network, 
the first line of Greys being in full retreat 
ahead of them; behind this {our first line) 
chased the enemy’s second line hotly, which, 
in turn, was flying before the onslaught of the 
men of “La Belle Riviere and finally the 
latter were being peppered in the back by a 
third pursuing body of shouting “Butternuts. ” 

It was an American edition of the Battle of 
Killiecrankie, where 

“We ran, and they ran, 

And we a ran togither.” 

And as the 7th pounded along, O’Keefe the 
irrepressible jerked out: “Glory to God! 
we are just like the black draughts ould 
Sawbones used to give me in me youth, on 
Shannon’s shore — to be well shaken before 
taken. The first we are, and the second I’m 
thinkin’ we are goin’ to be ; bad luck to the 

* I mean the picture in which they are watching 
alternate platoons of Gauls and pig-tailed Tartans 
running in a close chase round a circle on one side, 
while the Mahdi’s men and the English helmets are 
doing the same on the other; the lion meantime 
fainting from fatigue, and the eagle lying on its 
back exhausted, with its claws in the air. 

fThe name given the Ohio by the early French 
explorers. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


53 


Johnnies ! Get up there, you lead-heeled 
screw !” he shouted to his horse. But as the 
straining beast plunged along, a ball struck 
him, and O’Keefe came a cropper that broke 
the thread of his discourse pretty smartly. 

Not for long, however; for as he puffed 
after the command, together with dozens of 
other dismounted troopers (the fire just here 
was peculiarly fatal to the horses), a raw 
recruit, whirled out of his place and his .wits 
by the shifting fortunes of the day, hailed 
him : 

“Say, you ! What regiment do you belong 
to ?” 

“Well,” he answered, with a twinkle, “I 
started in the 7th Pennsylvania horse ; but, 
begad. I’ve ended in the Irish foot !” 

Then he grinned at the unsuspicious lout ; 
and would have teased him further, but a 
riderless horse galloped by at the nioment, 
and seizing the opportunity — as well as the 
bridle — he sprang into the saddle, and with 
a joybus whoop was skimming after his com- 
rades, when his own name shouted in an awful 
voice made him pull up. 

“O’Keefe, help me out, if you’re a man!” 

And there lay Denbigh, his face livid, his 


54 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


eyes rolling like a madman’s, the veins stand- 
ing high on his forehead and his one free 
hand. His horse had rolled on him as it fell 
dying, and he was pinned down where the 
rush was thickest. His hat was off and 
trampled, one cheek was cut open, and hoof- 
marks were perilously near his head. 

Save you, is it?’^ said O’Keefe. “Why, 
man, I can hardly save myself ! ” 

“Save me,” repeated Denbigh, the foam 
standing on his lips. “Don’t leave me here. 

I can’t stay to be trampled to death — I 
won’t !” And he struggled frantically. 

“Look here,” said O’Keefe — and not un- 
reasonably — “I couldn’t move that horse off 
you by myself, and if I stopped to pry him 
up, the Johnnies would bag us both, /don’t 
want to be a prisoner any more than you do. 
Have some backbone about you. I’m sorry 
for you, but it’s the luck of war.” And he 
started on, for the wild yell — the war-cry of 
the Grey — sounded uncomfortably near. 

“Curse you!” screamed Denbigh, with a 
string of appalling oaths. “I knew how it 
would be. You Catholics are all alike — - 
prating and whining all the time about being 
better than any other people, and then, when 


WITH KILPATRICK. 55 

it comes to the pinch, doing nothing. Curse 
you, I say, and your God and your — ” 

^‘Hush up!” roared O’Keefe, reining in so 
sharply that his horse reared upright. “I’ve 
a mind to shoot you as you lay there, you 
vermin! D’you suppose such as me can be one 
of the holy ones of the Church? D’you think 
I’m up to bein’ a mirror of piety, and a shinin’ 
example of grace? Well, now, I just ain’t, I 
can tell you. But there’s this to it. They do 
say the devils go down before the Lord, and 
this devil that’s grippin’ me throat, and tollin’ 
me to let you die in your tracks, is goin’ down, 
for His honor and His Blessed Mother’s, if 
it costs me me life ten times over. D’you 
hear?” 

And he wheeled about and threw himself 
off at Denbigh’s side. 

The latter burst into a torrent of thanks, 
which O’Keefe interrupted violently with: 

“Don’t talk to me/ If you say a word I’ll 
leave you; for I’m that mad with your doin’s 
and sayin’s I’m most burstin’. You’re about 
as pleasin’ to me eyes as a yellow ribbon on 
St. Patrick’s Day; and if it wasn’t for one 
thing you might die in your ditch. And that 
is — you’ll please to remember it, too, when 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


56 

your goin’ to defame holy things, and sling 
mud at the Church — I’m savin’ your life and 
givin’ you liberty at the price of me own, for 
the sake of the ‘ Carpenter’s Son ’ (d’you 
mind?), of the ‘Fisherman Peter’ (and 
that ?), and for the sake of Mary Most Holy.” 

Roughly expressed, by a rude trooper in 
whose breast the Old Adam was on the 
rampage; but the man’s intention was as 
simply and purely the honor and glory of 
Him he served, and the Mother he loved, as 
if it sprang from the soul of a saint. 

Then, with a heave of his sturdy back, he 
managed to shove aside the dead horse enough 
for Denbigh to crawl out, helped him mount, 
saw him ride towards the vanish^g line ; and, 
as he braced himself for a run, was seized by 
an advance squad of Grey, hurried to the 
rear, and one week after was in Andersonville. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


57 


VIII. 

M eantime our troops burst through 
woods and stampeded the lead-horses 
of the enemy, casting loose such of their own 
as were foundered, and mounting the blooded 
racers, whose clean limbs and long reach 
carried them just as swiftly and impartially 
as they had carried their owners a few hours 
before. The others they turned adrift, and 
bolted ahead. And as they went, Oester, 
who was blowing his heart into the inspiriting 
“Forward!” suddenly threw up his arms, 
his bugle fell in a flashing curve, and he him- 
self swerved from the saddle, going down 
into the very thick of the iron-shod storm 
that rolled its death and valor westward from 
the field. 

The next thing he knew he was being 
dragged along, head and heels together, at 
a rate intolerable in his pain; and a stinging 
agony in his back made him squirm around 
to see what was the motive power. 


58 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


It was Jet ! He had seen his young master 
fall, and knew how impossible it was to stop; 
for he felt the irresistible stress of the advance 
on his quarters; but to leave the limp, boyish 
figure was more impossible; and the wise 
little mule dropped his head, grabbed Oester 
by the waist band (he didn’t know, poor 
fellow! that in his anxiety he had grabbed a 
mouthful of flesh too), and made off with a 
flank movement that kept him on the edge of 
the column, and saved his life as well as ' 
Oester’s. For under ordinary circumstances 
the stumbling beastie would have been ridden 
down or shot as a hindrance; but when the 
men saw what he was trying to do, they 
turned out when it was possible, and when it 
wasn’t, reined in, so as to make the shock of 
collision as light as might be, cheering him 
meantime with voice and word: “Go it, 
Blackie 1 ” “ Good for you, I say ! ” “Hi there, 
Jet!” “Hurrah for the little contraband!” 
and so on. 

However, in spite of all this, hampered as 
he was, he fell behind steadily ; and there is 
little doubt as to what would have happened 
(for the 7 th was ahead, and to the other regi- 
ments one bugler more or less “would not 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


59 


count in the news of the battle ”), had not the 
boy recovered consciousness, and managed to 
mount. 

He was to dizzy and faint to sit up, and 
as he lay over on Jet’s neck he spit out 
mouthfuls of blood, and time and again 
thought the world was reeling away into 
chaos. Then, too, there was such a strange 
refrain in his head, shaping itsejf to the time 
of the hoof-beats : “ . . . now and at the hour 
of our death ; ” now and at the hour of our 
death. 

Where had he heard it ? He couldn’t think. 
Well, it seemed to fit ; for he believed now 
was the hour of death. 

Who was saying, ‘‘Holy Mary, Mother of 
God, pray for us sinners”? It couldn’t be 
Schwartz, for he was dead, and — why, he 
was saying it himself ! “Holy Mary, Mother 
of God, pray for us sinners now and at the 
hour of our death. Amen. . . . Hail, full of 
grace! blessed art Thou among women — 
Friend of the friendless — Refuge of sinners — 
Health of the sick — who had said these 
things? Like a flock of starlings a crowd of 
soldier faces started out of the mists that 
blinded him, and there came a glimpse of a 


6o 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


tent, in which stood a man in strangely 
shaped garments, that glittered, and had a 
great cross on the back. That was last year. 
Yes, and then: There stood by the Cross 

Mary, His Mother. . . . She saw Him die — 
Her Son, Her God; and to His love She 
added the anguish of Her sinless Heart. . . . 
The Blood of Christ and the tears of Mary — 
that is what your souls were worth to Our 

Lord and His Mother ‘Behold the 

Mother’ — thy Mother/'^ 

There it was again. A Mother who loved 
and pitied and prayed. Why had nobody 
ever told him about H5r before, so he could 
have loved Her long ago ? And — what was 
that white thing fluttering in the wind ? 
“Without spot or stain, pray for us, who 
have recourse to thee.” That was’t quite 
right as to the words, but She, the Mother 
of God, was the one Schwartz’s medal said 
was without sin. Where was his medal ? 
And in quick alarm he grasped for it. Ah, 
that agony! “And a sword shall pierce — ” 
But the darkness he had been struggling 
against closed in on him, and he fell — thanks 
to God and Our Lady — at the side, not under 


■ WITH KILPATRICK. 6 1 

the wheels, of the ambulance, whose white 
cover he had sighted just before. 

‘‘Is he dead?” asked the young surgeon 
in charge. 

“Think not, sir,” said his steward. 

“Up with him, then. Here, let’s see if 
he’s badly hit. Jove!” he added, under his 
breath, “that was a narrow shave! Here, 
Saunders, look at this.” 

“Yes, sir,” replied the soldier; “that often 
happens among the Romanists.” 

For the medal of Our Lady had caught the 
ball on its disk, and the flattened lead fell 
from the boy’s shirt as Doctor Harding opened 
it. Under the medal and all around it the 
flesh was discolored and contused, but not a 
scratch or break marred the young body. 

“What’s that you’re saying?” asked the 
Doctor, sharply. 

“I ssid, sir, that often happens among the 
Romanists; they most all wear medals, and 
dozens of ’em git saved just that way.” 

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the Doctor, im- 
patiently; “anything else would do it just as 
well.” 

“Then why don’t it, sir ?” asked Saunders, 
not unnaturally. “You see. Doctor,” he went 


62 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


on, confidentially, <‘I used to think just like 
you do, but a man sees a sight of things when 
he’s on hospital duty. And about these here 
medals (/ used to call ’em < charms,' and 
many’s the time I’ve wondered what Cotton 
Mather and John Knox would ’a done with 
them fellows, the way they take on about the 
Virgin and miracles), they certainly are 
cur’ous. Why, sir, if they can have ’em on — 
lots of Protestants as well as Catholics — 
they’re just as pleased! and they say the 
prayers on ’em as simple as children. And I 
tell you, sir. I’ve seen such direct answers to 
’em, specially the kind they call novenys, as 
would make you hold your breath. 

“They don’t reely worship Her neither,” 
he continued, with the air of giving a stag- 
gering piece of information; “but, my! they 
do love Her. They call Her ‘Mother of 
Mercy,’ and ‘Ark of the Covenant,’ and 
‘Mornin’ Star,’ and a lot more names; and 
all of ’em have a sensible meanin’ too. These 
here are ’cause She’s never any more tired of 
pleadin’ to God for sinners than the mothers 
down here is of prayin’ for their bad children; 
and ’cause She bore the Promised Redeemer, 
like the Jews’ Ark bore the Tables of the 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


63 

Law ; and ’cause She come before the Sun of 
Justice rose on the world, and so forth, sir. 
Just as pat! And every one givin’ the same 
answer, though, as the copy-books say, 
‘There’s many men of many minds.’” 

“Why, you’re a papist yourself, Saunders,” 
said the Doctor, laughing. 

“I ain't , sir” — with some heat, — “but I 
certainly do feel different about the Virgin 
from what I used to. Before I didn’t think 
of Her at all, but one day when one of them 
little white-bonneted women — Sisters of 
Charity, you know, sir; and good as gold 
they are too — says to me, ‘Mr. Saunders, if 
you’re willin’ to pay so much respect to Mary, 
the mother of Washington, * I think you can 
surely spare a little for Mary, the Mother of 
God.’ I was sort of struck in a heap. The 
Mother of God! That was pretty solemn — 
Land ! listen to that, sir ! ” 

That was the screeching of shell that had 
grown so painfully familiar during the day. 


* Gen. Andrew Jackson’s choice of an epitaph to 
be placed on the tomb of Gen. Washington’s mother. 


64 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


IX. 

W HILE O’Keefe was giving up liberty, 
and Oester was being carried to the 
rear, the 7th and the rest of the brigade were 
organizing about a mile from the rail-fence 
barricade ; but they had hardly begun to pull 
into shape before Clairburn made a fresh 
pounce on them, and for the next twenty 
minutes the display of horseshoes would 
have rejoiced the soul of a farrier. 

About four miles ahead they filed off into 
the open fields, where they fetched up “face 
to” the wood out of which they had just 
rushed, and made another attempt at re- 
organization ; and were succeeding, when 
again the fatal yell rose in a steady crescendo; 
and “Fighting Pat” for the third time hurled 
his command on them, his men looking like 
a vast grey shadow in the falling night — but 
it was a shadow of death, and the bugles of 
the 7th and 4th sharply and thrillingly called 
the “Dismount.” The men were ranged in 
line, and the Chicago Board of Trade Bat- 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


65 

tery* wheeled its six guns in front of them, 
with the precision of veterans and the cool- 
ness of a dress parade, and unlimbered and 
began to serve their pieces with such effect 
that the Greys were checked, but not beaten 
back until after an hour of hard work. 

But how they fought ! It was Charge !” 
from the Grey, then grape and canister from 
the Blue. ‘‘Retreat!” for the Grey, then 
shells from the Blue. “Charge !” and again 
a scattering death. “Retreat!” and a rain 
of shrieking iron. In the midst of it one of 
the Battery’s guns burst, and then it was 
harder work for the other five, and a death of 
honor on the field for many a bold cannoneer. 

Needless to say, they stuck to it, however, 
till the woods swallowed back the Grey- 
coats ; and then, exhausted, bleeding, but 
undaunted, the command rolled from their 
horses, and slept like Seven Sleepers. 

The next two days were a confused blank 
to Oester, and very “hagamarizing ” f to Jet; 

* This was one of the finest batteries in Sherman’s 
army, and was raised, equipped, and (I believe) 
manned to a considerable extent by the Chicago 
Board of Trade. 

f A word which in darky dialect means something 
which is both worrying and painful. 


66 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


for Clairburn still hung on the rear and flank 
of our troops, and the fighting was incessant: 
the Blue hating to go back to camp leaving 
the railroad intact, the Grey knowing that 
the life of Atlanta as a Confederate strong- 
hold depended on so keeping it, and both 
behaving accordingly. And when two sets 
of Americans, with opposing ideas on the 
same subject, come into collision, I can just 
assure you that ‘‘Greek meeting Greek” is 
nowhere as a simile of the tug of war that 
follows. One incident, however, both boy 
and mule remembered as long as they lived, 
and for very much the same reason. 

Jet had hung about the ambulance so per- 
sistently, after his young master was lifted 
into it, that he attracted Saunders’ attention. 
He’d dodge teamsters, wagons, troopers, and 
trees ; he’d gallop, he’d trot, he’d crawl, 
according to the pace of the train of the 
wounded ; and if he got separated from it in 
any way, he’d lift up his voice in such appall- 
ing discord that everything that could give 
way did so rather than listen to his “hon- 
ing.” So when one of the leaders fell lame, 
Saunders clapped Jet into the harness, and 
he trotted on, looking funny enough by the 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


67 

side of the rawboned, long-legged beast he 
was paired with. But he held his own ; for 
wasn’t he pulling his young master into safety 
at every step ? He balked at nothing, he 
shirked nothing ; and even when they came 
to a deep, swift creek, that roared across 
their line of retreat, he plunged in stoutly, 
and — in a minute was floundering and chok- 
ing, with not even the tips of his ears out ! 

The rest of the team was not so badly off, 
for the horses were taller; but even they 
were nearly afloat ; and Saunders, looking 
with dismayed eyes at the almost perpen- 
dicular bank before him, realized that violent 
remedies were necessary. 

He was driving that day (owing to some 
accident to the faithful black who usually 
filled the seat), and rose to the occasion — 
literally; for he stood up, and let fly a long 
whip, that snapped like a volley of musketry, 
emitting as he did so a torrent of shouts and 
stalwart Puritan swear-words that made the 
woods ring. The horses scrambled and 
strained and lashed and plunged, and when- 
ever and wherever he saw a flank or shoulder 
rise, he cut; so, impossible as it seemed, 
they actually got through, and started up the 


68 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


bank before the “block” grew serious behind 
them. 

Then Saunders eased down a trifle, and 
had puckered his mouth for a whistle, when 
the off wheel struck a boulder; the horses 
recoiled with the sudden stop, and then 
sprang forward so violently under the whip 
that every wounded man in the ambulance 
was jerked into the river. 

The shock of the cold water roused Oester 
from the lethargy he was in, and he tried to 
strike out ; but the agony in his breast made 
him drop his arms, and he was going under 
when a manl^ voice shouted in his ear: 
“ Hold up, my boy ; you’re all right ! ” 

And there was the young General on his 
splendid horse* breasting the current, and 
bending low to catch him. Four times did 
Kilpatrick do this thing, and each time he 
fished out one of his men, and towed him 
ashore, with a joke or a word of sympathy as 
occasion demadded ; and then he sent back 
for brandy and dry blankets (for everything 
was soaked or sunk in the bottom of the 
stream), showing as much care and concern 


* This incident is strictly true. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 69 

as if the fate of thousands were not weighing 
on his mind. 

But the boy got a chill, and when on the 
afternoon of the fifth day the command 
swung round the last segment of the half 
circle to the left, and the great raid was 
ended, he was put into the hospital to be 
treated for lung fever. 

Here a great surprise awaited him. He 
had been light-headed for several days, not 
painfully so ; for neither the blood nor car- 
nage nor fatigue of the raid had oppressed 
him ; but always he had seen a set of fleeting 
visions of Our Lady as he had thought of 
Her during that bitter ride, and he said and 
muttered so often the two prayers he had 
learned that the attendant, naturally suppos- 
ing him to be a Catholic, sent Father Ryan 
to him as soon as his head cleared. 

The priest was a Soutihern man, born and 
bred, and every instinct of his nature in sym- 
pathy with the Confederacy ; but, true to his 
calling as a representative and servant of 
Christ, he ministered as tenderly to the Blue 
as to the Grey, saying in response to the 
reproaches of some of his congregation : ‘‘My 
children, when they are sick and wounded 


70 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


they cease to be enemies, and become 
simply souls — souls to be saved and healed.” 

As he came abreast the boy, and saw his 
youth and the candor of his blue eyes, he 
asked, with a smile : 

“And what can I do for you ?” 

“Tell me about the Mother of God.” 

“What about Her?” 

“Everything, please.” 

“Are you a Catholic ?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Well, then. I’ll begin at the beginning; 
for Her life is so interwoven with that of Our 
Lord, that I can’t tell you the one without 
the other.” 

And he sat for twenty minutes, speaking 
clearly and concisely, then left, promising to 
come soon again ; for the boy’s face began to 
flush with fatigue. 

As he did so, some one called: “Mister — 
Deacon — you, sir.” 

As Father Ryan turned, Oester did the 
same with his heavy, tired head, and saw 
Denbigh. 

“Did you want me ?” asked Father Ryan, 
pleasantly. “Are you one of my children, 
too?” 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


71 


“No! oh, no!” said Denbigh; “I ain’t a 
Romanist ; but I’d like to speak to you, if 
you can spare the time.” 

But when Father Ryan sat beside him, he 
seemed to have no words. 

“Is it something that is on your mind?” 
asked the priest. 

“Well, that’s about the size of it, but 
blamed if I know where to begin ! ” And 
he rubbed his forehead worriedly. “Look 
here,” he broke out, finally, “can you find 
out anything about a man that’s been taken 
prisoner ? Not an officer, but a private, like 
me. And I don’t know what prison he’s into; 
and maybe he ain’t alive ; and I’d give my 
foot — willin’ — ” (Oester saw one was band- 
aged and packed in ice) “to find him; and, 
I say, can you do it for me ? I’ll give you 
my year’s pay and my watch, and — ” He 
had dragged himself up into a half-sitting 
position, and was gripping Father Ryan’s 
arm with a force that made him thankful he 
hadn’t met the man in battle. 

“I’ll do it gladly,” said Father. Ryan, 

without the year’s pay and the watch; but 
you must try to be a little clearer.” 

“I can’t,” replied Denbigh, falling back 


72 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


on the pillow with a groan, unless I tell 
you a long story that would make you hate 
me too much to want to help me. And I’ve 
got to be helped.” (The man’s undisciplined 
nature showed in his desperation.) 

‘‘My friend,” said the priest, gravely, “do 
you think I would dare refuse any favor I 
could grant — I, a priest of the Living God, 
who am trying to walk in the footsteps of 
Our Lord, and who begs to be forgiven as he 
forgives others ? ” 

Denbigh looked suspiciously and gloomily 
at him. 

“Do you feel that way, or do you just talk 
that way — wait ! I don’t mean to ask that, 
but I haven’t any kind of religion, and didn’t 
believe anybody else had until — will you 
swear to help me if I tell you ? ” 

“No; that is unnecessary; but I promise 
in the name of God and Our Lady to help 
you to the best of my ability.” 

“ ‘God and Our Lady,’ that’s what he 
said,” muttered the man. Then with averted 
eyes he told the story of O’Keefe’s rescuing 
him, closing with: 

“I sha’n’t rest, I can't, till he’s out of that 
hell. I’ve heard you Catholics stick together 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


73 


like dock-burs, so maybe some other priest 
round the prisons can tell you where he is, 
and how I can get him North.” 

‘I’ll write immediately to the priest near- 
est Belle Isle and Andersonville, and to 
Richmond ; and the moment I hear, you shall. 
Or would you like me to stop by to-morrow 
or next day ? There may be something else 
you will think of that you’d like to tell me 
about.” 

“All right,” said Denbigh, eagerly; “I 
wish you would.” 

“Halloo, boy!” he said, as, having watched 
Father Ryan off, he settled down in bed, and 
spied Oester. “How’dyd?^^ get here?” 

And when the boy told him, and added with 
quiet conviction, “It was the medal did it,” 
he neither scoffed nor jeered, but lay quite 
still, whistling an inaudible tune, and think- 
ing deeply. 



74 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


X. 

T he days stretched into a long week, 
broken only by the surgeon’s rounds, and 
two visits from Father Ryan, who brought, 
however, but the comfort of his presence to 
the little bugler, and the assurance of his 
sympathy to Denbigh; for of O’Keefe he had 
been able to learn nothing. 

A genuine friendship meantime had sprung 
up between the bed-neighbors, unlikely as it 
seemed, which became a comfort to both; 
although it was necessarily a silent one; for 
Oester couldn't speak, and Denbigh found 
little to say, except when his savagery cropped 
out as Pain ran its burning ploughshare up 
and down his crushed leg, or when he was 
pouring out his questions and hopes about 
O’Keefe. But they exchanged kindly looks, 
and many a time the man swallowed back his 
groans and curses as the patient blue eyes of 
the boy looked at him aggrieved and amazed. 
Denbigh had fallen on hard times. His 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


75 


was a stubborn nature, that ran deep in single 
grooves, and its entire strength was set on 
finding O’Keefe, and releasing him — a possi- 
bility that halted lame in Despair’s own har- 
ness. It was the first time he had ever con- 
cerned himself about any one, and through 
the opening made in the iron armor of his 
selfishness Love and Conscience entered, 
and his whole being was in revolt against 
their stings. His mind was pitted against 
his body; and burst ligaments, crushed bones, 
and a troubled mind are a bad combination, 
I can tell you. 

Saunders did him an ugly turn, too, al- 
though quite unconsciously; for one day, 
when he incidentally mentioned a brother 
who had come home from Belle Isle — kept 
alive by his passionate desire to see once 
more the White Mountains of his boyhood, 
and who died as the train drew up in the 
station, — Denbigh had questioned him with 
a terrible eagerness as to the condition of 
the prisoners, the hardships they had under- 
gone, and the effects of the mental torture 
produced by the sights and sounds around 
them; and Saunders’ answers, sharpened 
by personal grief and faithful memory, had 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


76 

nearly maddened him, the closing sentence 
completing the keenness of his suffering. 

“I don’t like to rake over old sores like 
these here; and I don’t, as a gen’ral practice. 
When I fust come down here, I usedter 
pretty frequent; but that O’Keefe — wonder 
whatever did become of that fellow, any 
way? — he was a great chap for list’nin’. 
Good heart he had, too. Many’s the time 
I’ve set and talked with him about it tell I’ve 
seen the tears a-rollin’ down his face, an’ 
always he says to me: G pray to God and 
Our Lady’ (that’s the Virgin, you know) 
‘that I’ll die before I git into their hands.’ 
He’d a horror of ’em that was solid and no 
mistake.” 

And when Father Ryan came the next time, 
his frantic appeal set the priest to wondering 
whether the man’s mind could bear the strain. 
At the close of their agitated talk the Father 
said : 

“Pray for the news you seek, my friend ; 
that's the surest means to the end.” 

“Pray!” exclaimed Denbigh, sullenly. 
“Much your God would care for my prayers ! 
Besides, isn’t it a snivelling thing to do, to 
go to somebody you haven’t ever taken any 


WITH KILPATRICK. 77 

notice of, or done anything for all your life, 
and ask for a favor ? ” 

Father Ryan’s answer was the parable of 
the prodigal son. 

“But,” objected Denbigh, “that was his 
son.'' 

“And so are you God’s son, bought with a 
great price, set free at the cost of His own 
life.” 

Denbigh started at this last, but said, sar^ 
donically: “ I look like it, don’t I ? Don’t 
talk to me that way. I’ve got to stand or 
fall by my own strength.” 

“Then,” replied Father Ryan, “God love 
and pity you, for you’re leaning on a broken 
reed — one of the sort that will pierce you, 
you know.” 

“Now, look here,” said Denbigh, irritably, 
“what am I to do ? I don’t know anything 
about God, and I don’t believe He’d bother 
to look out for me any way, even if I did. 
I’ve had a rough life ; but, since I can remem- 
ber, I never felt sorry for anything except 
about O’Keefe. When I got hit, I hit back; 
when a man did me a mean turn, I paid him 
off as soon as I could — ” 

“ ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’” 


78 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


That’s SO,” said Denbigh, emphatically. 
<< Who said that ? ” 

“The Jews. But Our Lord gave a new 
commandment — ‘That you love one another, 
as I have loved you ’ . . . ‘ even to the death 
of the Cross.’” 

“Is that what makes you Catholics so 
clannish' ? ” 

“Yes,” said Father Ryan; “for the least 
of us who tries to practise our holy faith has 
to love his neighbor as himself, forgive 
seventy times seven, and forego revenge.” 

“ That don’t leave much show for the chaps 
that get started crooked.” 

“Oh ! yes. ‘There shall be joy in heaven 
upon one sinner that doth penance, more 
than upon ninety-nine just, who need not 
penance.’ ” 

“I don’t believe it !” said Denbigh, flatly. 

“Why? Don’t you think it a comforting 
belief?” 

“Yes, but it’s dead against nature.” 

“Human; yes; but, thank God, it is the 
promise of Eternal Mercy. Come, Denbigh, 
think a minute. You are not playing fair. 
Here’s something on which you’ve set your 
heart. Prayer is your only chance to get it ; 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


79 


for, although we do all we can as men, we 
can accomplish nothing unless God so wills 
it. (Don’t you remember, < Unless the Lord 
keep the city, he watcheth in vain that 
keepeth it’ ?) And you are leaving me to do 
all the praying.” And he smiled pleasantly. 

But Denbigh’s lips were^set, and he picked 
nervously at the bedclothing; so Father Ryan 
rose, touched the restless hand kindly, and 
said : 

“Try not to be discouraged. I’m begging 
Our Blessed Lady and St. Anthony to pray 
for your intention too — St. Anthony is the 
patron of all things or persons lost or strayed 
— and I’m sure they’ll help you. By the 
way. I’ve brought you a medal. Will you 
wear it ?” 

The man made a hasty gesture of dissent, 
then, with an effort at his old carelessness, 
said: “All right.” 

But when Father Ryan was gone, Denbigh 
looked at it curiously, and asked several 
elaborately indifferent questions of Our Lady’s 
little client in the next bed. 

Oester’s sharp suffering meantime had been 
intermitted by the great joy of baptism, and 
a pleasure that filled his boyish heart with 


8o 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


triumph and delight — nothing less than the 
purchase of Jet. It came about in a very 
natural way, although small buglers are not 
usually able to buy valuable mules in war 
times. 

Saunders told him, the day after their 
arrival, how the little beast had saved his life, 
and how pluckily he had behaved afterward ; 
and the boy, with eyes shining, half with 
laughter, half with tears (for he was very 
weak), had begged so earnestly to see the 
surgeon-in-chief, that that important func- 
tionary actually came to him ; and Oester 
told, or rather gasped, his story with such 
eagerness that his visitor’s indifference 
changed to interest, and the latter ended by 
promising to see that Jet was ‘‘mustered 
out,” and the boy’s back-pay applied to 
buying this trusty four-legged friend. 

And that was how, when Atlanta went 
down under the Blue avalanche hurled on it, 
and the wounded were sent back to Chat- 
tanooga, the little black mule happened to 
go along too, — the property, as the bill of 
sale declared, of E. Oester, Bugler of Co. M, 
7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, U. S. Army. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


8l 


XI. 

T he shouts and huzzas rang loud and 
long for that victory beyond Altoona Pass, 
and the sick rallied from their ails and 
wounds for pure joy ; but Denbigh was in 
the depths. To him the return to Thomas’s 
lines meant separation from Father Ryan, to 
whom he clung as his one hope of discover- 
ing O’Keefe; and he fell into such a state 
that the priest sacrificed valuable time to sit 
by him in the ambulance for the first miles of 
the journey, assuring and reassuring him of 
his continued interest, and of his confidence 
that God and Our Lady would help him in 
his extremity. 

Denbigh could not disbelieve the honest 
face and kind voice ; but neither could he 
believe, for all faith and he were strangers ; 
and, between his doubting mind, his troubled 
heart, and the exhausting trip, he was a very 
ill man when the wagons lumbered into 
Chattanooga. 


82 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


And Oester was not much better off ; for a 
driving storm played the mischief with his 
inflamed lungs, and when they reached the 
hospital he had only strength to beg for a 
place next his burly comrade, whose main- 
stay he became in the weary weeks that 
followed. 

They often talked over the chances for and 
against finding O’Keefe, and sometimes 
Denbigh was boastfully hopeful ; but, then, 
when Father Ryan’s letters came, still with- 
out news of the lost trooper, he would fall 
* into paroxysms of despair that were awful to 
witness. At first these exhaled in ravings, 
but later they passed in long, shivering agues, 
that left him silent and half lifeless for two 
or three days. 

Oester finally got very uneasy about him, 
and his Rosary often slipped through his thin 
fingers as he prayed to the sweet Comforter 
of the Afflicted for the man suffering so 
acutely at his side. 

One day, when things were very bad, he 
said, with some hesitation : 

‘‘I say, Denbigh, why don’t you ask the 
Blessed Virgin to help you ? She’s the 
sweetest — the dearest — and, then, don’t you 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


83 

know ‘it never has been heard of, through 
all ages, that any one who had recourse to 
Her ever was forsaken ’ ? ” 

“Who said so ?” asked Denbigh, as he lay 
back spent on his cot, the sweat standing 
on his forehead, and his hands — once so 
muscular — shaking like a nervous woman’s. 

“St. Bernard.” 

“Oh! hang it !” said Denbigh; “you and 
your saints ! ” And he flounced over in a way 
that put an end to the conversation. 

But in the night, when Sleep fled, and 
Memory and Pain took turns at tormenting 
him, he found his mind dwelling on it — “// 
never has been heard of, through all ages, that 
any one was ever forsakend' And they called 
Her the Mother of God. What if the whole 
thing were true — the story of Bethlehem and 
Calvary ? The coarsest, lowest man in the 
world is bound to have some feeling for his 
mother; and this Man they called Christ, who 
was perfect enough to give His life for His 
enemies, why, of course. He’d care more, 
thought Denbigh. And from his wild heart 
burst his first prayer (if prayer it could be 
called): 

“God — if there is one — give me this life 1 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


84 

Mary — if you can and will hear me — beg 
your Son to do it ! ” 

And after that he sent this challenge 
hurtling up to Heaven morning, noon and 
night; sometimes with a faint hope, some- 
times with angry impatience, but most often 
with despair, as the days and weeks rolled 
by, and Christmas was at hand, with the 
blank wall of silence still unbroken. 

The 25th dawned in a whirl of white — as 
if the Angels of Peac'i and Good-will were 
trying to shroud away the crimson stains on 
valley and hill ; and the lusty wind 

“ roared sweet thunders up to God ” 
among the pines that crowned the mountains. 
To be sure, the hospital carrier could not find 
much trace of Heaven, in the flakes that sifted 
into his neck, and the blasts that tweaked his 
nose till the water stood in his eyes, as he 
floundered through the drifts from the, post; 
but he was doing its work, and there was a 
bit of its practical charity in his heart, that 
had made him load himself and his horse to 
their utmost capacity with the Christmas 
parcels and letters for “the boys,’’ and set 
him grinning whenever he thought of their 
surprise and joy when he would stumble in, 


WITH KILPATRICK. 85 

“looking like old Kriss himself, with his fine 
wig of snow and his pack on his back.^’ 

Oester spied him first, and hurried to meet 
him, followed by an excited throng of such 
men as could hobble or go on crutches, and 
by the shouts and questions of such as had to 
“stay put” in their beds ; and when among 
the letters he saw one for Denbigh, in Father 
Ryan’s writing, his heart gave a great leap ; 
for all his Christmas devotions and prayers 
had gone for the “intention” of good news, 
and hope flamed high. 

He laid the missive on the troopers’ 
breast — for he had fallen asleep, worn out 
with waiting — and passed on to a poor fellow 
whose hands were off, and for whom he had 
promised to write a letter home, wishin’ ’em 
many happy returns of the day, and tellin’ 
’em he’d be there on his legs fast enough, 
when once he started ; but that he’d grown 
too proud to shake hands with anybody ; for 
the surgeons admired them paws to such a 
extent that they’d put ’em in spirits as speci- 
mens of good looks.” 

As he finished his dictation, with a wide, 
cheerful grin, a suppressed shout from Den- 
bigh brought the boy hurrying down the ward. 


86 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


“He’s found! he’s found!” he cried, and 
from that iron man’s eyes the tears streamed, 
and from his breast a sob tore its way, while 
the little bugler pranced feebly but gaily 
around his cot, saying: “I told you so! I 
told you so ! I knew the Blessed Virgin 
would find him for you. Where is he ? ” 

“In Andersonville,” replied Denbigh; 
“and if your God — ” 

“Leave off they, Denbigh.” 

“Well, then, if — God will give me a 
chance. I’ll try to do the square thing ; and if 
your Lady — ” 

“Another y too many,” cackled the 
youngster. 

And Denbigh lay back, with a softened look 
on his grim face, too happy for words. 

After this he made a turn for the better, 
talked very seriously with the surgeon-in- 
charge as to the best way of building up 
quickly and soundly, became the most obedient 
of patients, and took to watching the weather 
as if he were a barometer paid by the hour. 
This last phase puzzled the young doctor not 
a little, and he began a paper on the “ Effects 
of Hygrometric Changes upon Certain Ner- 
vous Temperaments but Oester knew that 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


87 


when the storms beat, and the frosts nipped, 
and the long winter rains drowned the land, 
his thoughts and heart were away in the open 
stockade at Andersonville, with the freezing, 
starving, unsheltered men, and that he was 
suffering for and with the one who was dying 
there that he might live. 



88 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


XII. 

B y mid-February Denbigh was up and 
about again, and ready for duty; but the 
day he got his discharge from the hospital he 
slipped on a piece of ice, and snapped his 
sword-arm, to his own great disgust and to 
Oester’s satisfaction. 

“I’m sorry you got hurt, Denbigh,” he 
said ; “but I am so glad you ain’t goin’ away! 
It would have been so lonesome!” 

For never again would the boy-bugler of 
Company M thrill the breasts of his com- 
rades with the wild, sweet music of the 
“charge,” or the stirring alarm of the 
“retreat”; never again would Jet’s black 
legs trot in advance of the long-stretching 
charges ; for the bullet that was turned from 
the breast of his little master by Our Lady’s 
medal had so bruised and shocked his lungs 
that they were all too easy a prey to cold, 
and the surgeon had put him on detached — 
very detached — duty about the hospital. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


89 

Denbigh looked at him half grimly, half 
amused — it was so new to him to have any 
one glad about him. 

<‘Yo do seem badly off for comp’ny,” he 
growled, ‘‘with only a thousand or so fel- 
lows around.” 

Oester laughed. 

“I know, but they ain’t home-folks. Now, 
you and Jet and I, why we’re all one family; 
we belong to the 7th — ” 

“A mule, a fool, and a boy — nice family!” 
interrupted Denbigh. 

“And the regiment’s all the home 1 had,” 
finished the boy. 

“I too,” said Denbigh. “But shut up, 
that’s a good younker! I’m ’most crazy with 
this here arm, and thinkin’ of this fresh stop 
to gettin’ ahead.” 

About mid-March the rumor came up that 
Wilson was going to make a dash into the 
heart of the Grey country with “discretion- 
ary orders,” and that the 7th was going with 
him. 

This was hard luck with a vengeance, and 
their faces became as blue as their coats 
when they thought of how they had to stay 
behind and miss the “fun.” Then came 


go 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


word that Wilson was lost, and for a month 
no news could be had of the man that was 
cutting such a broad swath .through Ala- 
bama and Northern Georgia. Then came 
the wonderful message of Appomattox Court 
House, the simultaneous fall of Richmond 
and Selma; then Wilson burst through the 
“no-news” veil, and in rapid succession, like 
beads of fire running down the telegraph 
wires, came the announcements of Mont- 
gomery, Columbus and Macon, Johnston’s 
surrender, and — oh! balm to Denbigh’s heart 
— the release of the Andersonville prisoners. 

Denbigh would have started off without 
leave, pay, clothing, staff or scrip; but Oester 
managed to pull his head out of the clouds 
long enough to put him through the proper 
formalities; and at the same time, by the 
advice of his friend, the surgeon, he got his 
own discharge, pay, and Jet’s purchase 
papers. Then they both started for Annapo- 
lis, to which port Father Ryan told them that 
O’Keefe (or the man identified as O’Keefe) 
would be sent. 

They reached there early in the morning 
on a troop-train (cattle cars); for Denbigh’s 
impatience could not be contained, and he 


WITH KILPATRICK. QI 

found no trouble in “mixing in” with a 
returning regiment from his own State. 
They “snatched” a breakfast, and then 
Oester went to see about getting Jet fed and 
watered (it wasn’t safe in those busy times to 
depend on other people), and Denbigh posted 
off to see when the boats were due. As to 
this last, though, the rumors conflicted so 
(and I’m afrqiid his temper, rubbed into a 
great irascibility by his anxiety, did not 
smooth matters) that by the time the whis- 
tles were sounding, he was as far from pos- 
itive news as ever. The Marshal’s office was 
shut; nobody knew who could make out the 
papers necessary for going aboard; and no 
one in the throng that raced, that jostled, 
that surged and poured to see the men raised 
from worse than the tomb, could or would 
tell him what ought to be' done. All were 
too eager to reclaim friend, child, brother, 
husband, kinsman, from their long journey 
into the Valley of the Shadow; and such as 
had not that hope groped tearfully down 
to hear some chance word of their dead and 
“missing.” 

Here and there some kind hearts listened 
to him, but they shook their heads, and had 


92 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


no help to give except their sympathy; and 
it was well on into the afternoon when Den- 
bigh got to the wharf, and had to halt before 
the wall of steel that guarded the enclosure, 
watching with miserable and envious eyes 
those who had passes, and who went in to 
claim their own. 



WITH KILPATRICK. 


93 


XIII. 

D enbigh pressed as near as the guards 
would permit; and, O God! what an 
awful sight met his eyes! Were those creat- 
ures human that staggered up the gang- 
plank? Were those objects, lying on pallets, 
and carried by on stretchers, men? Gaunt 
with hunger, idiotic with suffering, rotted 
with scurvy and gangrene, covered with 
sores, they were dying by the half score, even 
as the boat lay alongside the wharf, and 
home and freedom were in their grasp. 

He turned deathly sick, and the green hills 
and blue river surged and rolled together 
like a groundswell; but he shook off his faint- 
ness, and, when the first rush was over, told 
the soldier nearest him that he had a friend 
aboard he wanted to carry away. 

“Got a permit ? ” 

“No.” 

“Get one.” 


94 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


‘‘But, man,” said Denbigh, “the office is 
closed now.” 

“That’s so. Then wait till to-morrow.” 

“I can’t and I won’t!” flashed Denbigh. 
Then, fearing some delay, he controlled him- 
self enough to reason and remonstrate with 
the soldier; and after a while the latter said: 

“Well, see here; I’ve got my orders, but I 
gutss the captain wouldn’t be too hard on 
me at such a time, and — ” with reckless 
good-nature — “don’t care if he is. / can 
stand it if you can; and I ain’t goin’ to keep 
e’er a one of them poor critters away from 
his friends after he’s got this far on the road 
home.” 

And Denbigh slipped by as the soldier 
looked away, and in a few seconds was stand- 
ing, cap in hand, before the officer in charge. 

“Well?” said the latter, briskly. 

“I want a man named O’Keefe, please 
sir.” 

He turned to the ledger, ran his finger 
down the O's, then down the then shook 
his head. 

‘'No such man here.” 

Denbigh’s heart seemed to stop. 

“He must be, sir.” 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


95 


“Well, he isn’t.” 

“Ain’t this the Queen of the Chesapeake^ 
sir?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, that’s the boat he was put aboard 
to come North.” 

“Are you sure? ” 

“Yes, sir. Here it is in writin’.” And he 
drew a well-worn envelope from his pocket 
containing the few lines from Father Ryan: 
“ . . . He will be sent with the draft of men 
shipped aboard the Queen of the Chesapeake ^ 

“That’s so,” said the officer; “but there 
may have been some mistake, you know.” 

“My God! don’t say that, sir. You don t 
know what hangs on findin’ him.” 

“Is he your brother?” 

“No, sir.’' 

“Ah, a friend ?’' 

“Well, sir, he ain’t any call to look on me 
as even that.” 

The young officer turned surprised eyes 
on him. 

“Think again, sir, please,” said Denbigh. 
“Ain’t there a chance he could have been 
slipped aboard without bein’ booked?” 

“Yes,” was the somewhat reluctant answer. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


96 

“he might. But I say, my good fellow, I’ve 
been on duty twenty-four hours, and I’m very 
tired. Couldn’t you come back to-morrow?” 

Denbigh made a gesture of mute despair, 
and launched his old cry for help to Heaven. 
The officer looked at him more attentively 
as he did so, and the anguish that in a few 
minutes had drawn the man’s face old and 
thin, touched his heart (you see he was 
young, and had not had time to grow entirely 
hard in the midst of War’s horrors) ; so, 
giving a mighty yawn and an impatient 
shake, he shouted: 

“Orderly!” 

A soldier appeared and touched his cap. 

“Were all the released prisoners regis- 
tered?” 

“No, sir.” 

“ How many were not, and where are they? ” 

“About a hundred, sir. Some of ’em’s in 
the forward cabin, some bf ’em was buried at 
sea, and some of ’em’s just dead.” 

“Can you identify your man?” — to Den- 
bigh. 

“Yes, sir. He’s about my size, broad and 
strong, a red face, black hair, grey eyes, and 
a turn-up nose.” 


WITH KILPATRICK. 97 

The officer shook his head but said noth- 
ing, and led the way to the forward cabin, 
the floor of which was littered with pallets, 
on which lay men in every stage of emacia- 
tion. Over some the sheets were entirely 
drawn ; but through the folds knees, feet, 
and ghastly bones set up with horried dis- 
tinctness. 

“Not much breadth or color here, my 
man,” he said, sadly, as Denbigh’s startled 
look flashed around the enclosure. 

“I’ll look at the — the — dead ones first,” 
remarked the trooper, in a choked voice. 

And one after another poor face was 
uncovered, but without result. Then he went 
from mattress to mattress, scrutinizing, and 
in one or two instances calling the men by 
the name that had become his text. But 
negation and denial met him at all sides; and, 
with the revulsion from hope, that deathly 
sickness again swept over him, and, with 
his hands pressed to his head, he dropped 
on a seat, muttering faintly: “I’m beat, my 
God! I’m beat! ” 

“Run, fetch some brandy,” said Lieut. 
Craig to the orderly 

As he stood looking at Denbigh, while the 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


98 

latter, feeling bruised and crushed, repeated, 
“My God! my God!” in a tone of agony 
that made it a most complete prayer, a qua- 
vering wreck of a voice that had once been 
sweet and flexible crooned feebly: 

“ Holy Mary, Mother mild, 

Hear, oh! hear Thy feeble child! 

Waves of sorrow o’er me roll. 

Storms of — ” 

“Who’s that?” cried Denbigh, a thrill run- 
ning through him. 

“Where?” asked the young officer. 

“That singing.” 

“I didn’t hear any singing.” 

“Yes, sir; here.” And he laid his hand on 
the door of a small state-room near by. 

“That, sir,” observed the orderly, who 
had returned, “is ‘Crazy Pat.’ When the 
transports was cornin’ off, some of the boys 
asked me to look out for him speciM; for 
he’d just spent himself a-lookin-’ out for them 
in that cursed hole — beg your pardon, sir — ” 

“Yes, yes,” said Denbigh; “go on!” And 
he seized his arm with his old strength, and 
his eyes burned so fiercely that the man said 
to himself: 

“Whew, you look as if you needed a 
strait-jacket, you do!” Then to Lieut. Craig: 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


99 


‘‘And so when we got started, I just got one 
of the little state-rooms, and put him in it. 
I hope you don’t mind, sir. You see he was 
so 2^«common good to them poor chaps.” 

“Mind? Not a bit. Holt. I think it was 
mighty good of you to do it.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Holt, reddening. 
“My, you’d just ought to hear about that 
poor fellow, though they do say when fust he 
come he was just like a wild beast; but when 
he got to lookin’ around he stopped a-cussin’ 
and growlin’, an’ turned to like a — a — a — 
’ihost like a, angel. He’d taken off his clo’es 
tell he’d most nothin’ left, and covered up 
the naked ones; and when he hadn’t any 
more, he’d cover ’em with his body, — for the 
warmth of it, sir, you know; for it was a 
most cruel cold winter. He shared his feed 
with the hungriest, an’ when that there 
spring* busted out, he’d crawl backwards 
and forwards for hours, a-fetchin’ water to 
them as was too weak to go for it; and tell 
his mind went — ” 

Here Denbigh flung up his arms with a cry 

* A spring of pure fresh water burst up through 
the sand within the stockade — a miracle of God’s 
mercy. 


lOO 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


that made the soldier jump and edge a little 
farther off. He thought, <‘You never know 
what they’re up to — the lunatics!” 

Holt went on: *‘He was the comforting- 
est cretur to the dyin’ ones! He’d a little 
crucifix and a string o’ prayer-beads, and 
when they was a-givin’ the countersign to 
Death — an’ glad enough to go, poor souls! — 
he’d hold ’em in his arms an’ pray with ’em ; 
an’ hold that there cross afore their eyes, 
and put them there beads in their hands, an’ 
turn ’em on their faces when they was dead, 
so they wouldn’t be stared at, and set by ’em 
tell they was buried. And even after he 
turned luny he’d sit and sing an’ pray in a 
way that’d make you laugh an’ cry, too ; for 
sometimes it was songs that was funny as 
fun, and sometimes it was hymns an’ wailin’s 
and such ; and he’d such a way of callin’ on 
the Virgin Mary — ” 

‘^It’s him ! I know it’s him !” said Den- 
bigh, shaking with excitement. ‘‘Take me 
to him. For any sake in the world that’ll 
hurry you, take me ! ” 

And Holt opened the door. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


lOI 


XIV. 


W AS that O’Keefe ? 

Denbigh went on his knees and hung 
over him, with the tears streaming down his 
face, and the great veins in his throat filled 
to bursting. He caught his hands — like the 
claws of an eagle, with the nails gone to 
talons — in his own shaking palms, and tried 
to call him by name ; but he could only make 
the awful, choking sound that unaccustomed 
weeping brings to a man. 

‘H’ll go make out his papers,” said Lieut. 
Craig, and disappeared; while Holt stood 
near the door, ready to pounce in should the 
supposed lunatic offer to hurt “Crazy Pat,” 
and out if he should fly at himself. 

But Denbigh’s soul was concentrated in 
the look with which he devoured the pathetic 
figiire before him. Where was the broad 
back that heaved the dead horse from off him 
that day? Where the muscles that made him 
the most fearless and tireless rider in the 


102 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


troop ? where the ruddy cheeks, and the 
thick, black hair ? Sunken eyes that looked 
vacantly at him; sunken cheeks, and blue 
lips that clung to gums almost toothless with 
scurvy; the sauc}^ nose drawn and pinched as 
on a death’s-head ; the black hair white now, 
and clinging scantily to the skull ; and the 
sturdy figure so light he could lift it on one 
arm. 

“O’Keefe!” he cried at last; “O’Keefe, 
look up ! Don’t you know me, man ? ” 

But he might as well have talked to the 
dead. 

“I must get him out of this!” he half 
implored, half flung at Holt. 

“And you shall,” said that kind-hearted 
fellow. “Where’ll you take him ?” 

“Away to Pennsylvania — anywhere in the 
world he’ll want to go.” 

And they lifted him in the blanket, and 
carried him to the gang-plank. But here a 
difficulty arose. As the air smote his face he 
roused up, and in a distinct voice announced 
he’d go no farther ; and when they tried to 
move on, he clutched at the nearest stanchion, 
and held so desperately they could not get 
him loose without hurting him. Denbigh 


WITH KIL*PATRICK. 


103 


was in the deepest distress, and it would have 
amazed anybody who had ever known the 
rough trooper to see how gentle he was, and 
how tenderly he coaxed and plead with the 
crazy man. 

Won at last by his friend’s manner, or tired 
of his own whim, O’Keefe motioned to him to 
come closer ; and as Denbigh bent, the sick 
man whispered, with a sly look in his eyes : 

‘‘I won’t let ’em take me, for they’ll be 
carryin’ me back to the stockade ; but if ye’ll 
watch your chance and get me a horse, we 
can go free sure.” And he laughed the 
vacuous laugh of madness. 

Holt shook his head. 

‘‘It’s just a freak. He couldn’t set a horse 
two minutes.” 

But the struggle began the moment they 
attempted to move on again ; 'and one of the 
surgeons coming by at the moment, stopped 
long enough to say : 

“Ah, ‘Crazy Pat’! Poor fellow, he’ll die 
anyhow, so let him have his way if you — ” 

The rest of the sentence, and Denbigh’s 
fierce denial of its first half, were drowned in 
a loud bray; and there were Jet and Oester 


104 WITH KILPATRICK. 

peering over the railing of the wharf, to see 
what had become of him. 

A motion to the boy brought him aboard 
at a full run, and he shared Denbigh’s joy 
and dismay at the news and sight of their 
long-lost comrade ; then, as soon as he got 
the idea of a horse being wanted, he rushed 
for Jet, and in a jiffy had the mule alongside, 
and was helping O’Keefe to mount. 

The poor fellow had taken a fancy to 
Denbigh, who walked beside him, holding 
him up, and two or three times O’Keefe 
whispered : 

<‘Be careful ! Muffle his hoofs, and tie up 
his nose. If the guards get a sound they’ll 
be firin’ and chasin’, an’ we’re dead men. 
Keep to the trees, keep to the trees !” — in 
great excitement — ‘‘they’ll catch us, and, 
man, if you knew — ” 

A look of horror finished the sentence more 
forcibly than a volume of words could have 
done. 

As they began to emerge from the trees, 
and the houses of the town came in sight, 
O’Keefe grew wild. 

“Not there ! ” he exclaimed ; “not there ! 
They’ll get us. Back for the life of ye ! ’' 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


105 

And arguments and entreaties were useless. 

As Denbigh fell silent, discouraged, Oester 
had a happy inspiration. 

‘‘Look here, Denbigh,” he whispered. 
“Pretend to hide with him till it’s dark, then 
we’ll get him to the station. I’ll go now and 
get something for us all to eat.” 

And he was off before Denbigh quite took 
it in. When he did, however, he lowered his 
voice, and, affecting great caution, said : 

“Let’s hide here till night.” And, O’Keefe 
eagerly assenting, he lifted him down, spread 
his coat for him to lie on, and took his head 
on his knee. 

The spring was in full leaf, and the sun- 
shine, the rustling of the trees, and the fresh, 
sweet air were like balm to the distraught 
brain ; and soon O’Keefe was in a sound 
sleep, from which he awakened to tear with 
eager fingers the food the boy had brought. 

Toward night they got to the station ; but 
the crowd excited his fears, and again he 
refused to go, struggling so violently that a 
soldier, attracted by the scuffle (which took 
place somewhat apart from the station), 
spoke up to Denbigh : 

“I’ve seen that sort before, and my advice 


io6 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


to you is to get him home on the tramp. 
The excitement of such frights and scares as 
these here ’ll kill him sure; but if he has his 
way, and thinks he’s escaping, he’ll get a 
chance, maybe.” 

But,” said Denbigh, ‘^how — ” 

*‘Get a couple of rubber blankets, a tent if 
you can, a coffee-pot, and a haversack for 
grub, and tramp it. That’s my advice.” 

The man and boy looked at each other and 
nodded ; and while Oester plunged off to get 
Jet out of the cattle-car in which he had 
been shipped, and explain to the agent (who 
growled about refunding the money, but did 
it when he heard “ Andersonville prisoner”), 
Denbigh led O’Keefe away to the appointed 
place of meeting. And that very night they 
started in as straight a line as they could 
make for the Juniata Valley. 

They fell in with the humor of the mad- 
man, trod stealthily, muffled Jet’s hoofs, and 
halted only when the dawn began to signal 
up the day in the east. Then they hid in 
the woods till dark, the man and boy taking 
turns to watch their comrade ; and when 
night fell they started on again, Denbigh 
always at his side, with his arm abou. him. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


107 


and the tired, crazy liead often resting on his 
shoulder. And as he went his heart and lips 
kept time to his tread — 

“God, I thank Thee! Most Holy Virgin, 
I thank Thee ! Listen to my thanks, please 
— you listened once to my prayers — though 
they aren’t much in face of your mercy and 
goodness.” 

And truer praise is seldom given to Heaven 
than that which welled from his deep grati- 
tude. 

As they rose higher into the mountains, 
and the air blew keener and sweeter, O’Keefe 
brightened perceptibly. Sometimes he would 
break into singing, his sweet Irish voice 
swelling on the night ; then he lost his dread 
of travelling by daylight ; and one afternoon, 
when they ran across a party of farm lads out 
for a holiday, he looked at them tranquilly, 
and stood his ground without any sign of 
fear. 

Once Denbigh trembled on the verge of a 
hope so exquisite as to shake his being to its 
centre. It was on a sultry day; they had 
halted, exhausted with the heat, and a 
violent thunder-storm burst over them. As 
the bolts fell, and the sharp rattle of the 


io8 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


meeting clouds rolled away in sullen boom- 
ing, O’Keefe looked up, with his hand at 
his ear. 

“Begad ! ” he said, “ Kil’s at ’em in earnest ; 
and there’ll be wigs upon the green before 
the night, or ye may call me an Orangeman.” 

His friends hung breathless on his next 
words ; but the light was only a flash of the 
brain, and they took up their tramp, in two 
minds about it. 



WITH KILPATRICK. 


109 


XV. 

T hat tramp was now drawing to a close. 

During its entire length Denbigh had 
been mind, strength, eyes, hands, and feet to 
his comrade, who in turn hung implicitly on 
him, and whimpered like a child if he lost 
sight of him ; and even when O’Keefe tried to 
say his prayers, stumbling sorely in his 
efforts, Denbigh would hold the poor, thin 
claws together, and (with a little help from 
Oester) halt with him through the ^‘Our 
Father” and the ‘‘Hail Mary”; and deep 
were the thoughts in that man’s soul as he 
traversed hill and valley face to face with 
Nature and Nature’s God, learning lessons of 
faith and patience at every step, and his 
whole inner life softened and lighted by the 
new forces at work upon it. 

One morning they came in sight of a village 
so pretty, so thriving, and so high, that 
Oester said : 

“Let’s stop here, Denbigh. You and I 


no 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


can work, and we can take care of O’Keefe 
ourselves.” 

I’d like to see anybody else try to inter- 
fere ! ” exclaimed Denbigh, fiercely. 

<‘You see,” continued the youngster, 
‘‘you’ve got your back-pay, and I’ve got Jet. 
That’ll give us a start. O’Keefe ’ll get a 
pension (that doctor at Chattanooga said 
anybody that’s regularly outed — crazy, you 
know, or too mauled up to work, etc., — gets 
over ^6o a month) ; so he can have all he 
wants, and we can manage somehow.” 

“Yes,” said Denbigh: “but how’ll we get 
work ? ” 

“Go to the Catholic priest — there’s a cross 
shinin’ on a steeple — and ask him about it.” 

“Very well,” responded Denbigh, greatly 
pleased. “ Let’s hustle along.” 

I think if Catholic priests ever could be 
surprised at anything. Father Connor would 
have been at the group that saluted his eyes 
as he sat on his porch, reading his Office — 
a tall, lank boy, brown as a berry ; a little 
black mule, so fat that his sides stood out 
like saddle-bags ; a burly man, travel-stained, 
and with wild beard and hair ; and finally the 
still distressing figure of poor O’Keefe. 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


Ill 


But a few words explained everything, and 
the kind heart of the Father overflowed. 
When they spoke about wishing to settle 
there, he held up his hands, and said : 

‘‘Now, thanks be to God and Our Lady, 
you’re just in the nick of time to buy out the 
Widow Suydam ! Her son in Iowa has lost 
his wife, and she has a distracted letter from 
him, begging her to come at once, and look 
after the farm and the children ; and she was 
wondering this very morning, after Mass, 
who would take her little house, her cow, 
her chickens, and her pasture-land. She’ll 
be willing to sell on time, and the price will 
suit, I think.” 

Then, after a little more talk, the priest 
rose, saying : 

“And now shall we not go into the church, 
and say a prayer of thanksgiving to God and 
Our Lady for bringing you home safely out 
of the bloodshed and danger ?” 

They assented gladly ; and behold, as they 
entered the sacred place, O’Keefe lifted his 
battered cap, his vacant eyes took expression, 
and, after kneeling and crossing himself 
before the tabernacle, he went to Our Lady’s 
shrine, where with folded hands he raised 


1 12 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


his voice and coherently repeated the ‘‘Hail 
Mary” ! 

Only another flash, but Father Connor 
whispered: “That’s a good sign. It shows 
some stirring of memory.” 

And as the months went by, the crazy 
soldier, his friend, and the long-growing lad 
became a regular part of the congregation of 
St. Mary of the Mount. 

That was all at least thirty years ago; 
but to-day, if you get off the train at the right 
station on the Pennsylvania Central, and ask 
for Oester, or Denbigh, or O’Keefe, you will 
be directed to a comfortable red-roofed 
dwelling, in the midst of far-reaching fields, 
dotted with barns as big as meeting-houses, 
and filled with short horns and brawny 
draught-horses ; and you’ll see, wherever a 
master ought to be, a tall, broad-shouldered 
man, with candid blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, 
and lungs of leather — that’s Oester. 

He‘11 ask you up to the house, and present 
you to a fresh, comely woman, and half a 
dozen sturdy, well-behaved children. He’ll 
seat you in a wide, delightful kitchen, with a 
sanded floor and a great fireplace, a raftered 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


II3 

ceiling garnished with strings of onions, 
apples, seeds, small bright gourds, and 
bunches of “old man”; and he’ll go, or send 
one of his children, for “Uncle Dan” and 
“Uncle Tom” ; and they’ll come in — O’Keefe 
limping from the effects of exposure in that 
hard time long gone, — white-haired and 
wrinkled, but with his grey eyes and saucy 
nose as expressive of fun and gayety as ever, 
his mind clear, his tongue master of his 
speech; and Denbigh, massive and powerful 
still, but his grim face looking kind and his 
eyes gentle — like a mountain of granite with 
the dawn’s light upon it; for faith has done 
for him what it does for all of us. 

And if you are an old comrade, you’ll 
glance at the carbines and sabres crossed 
above the mantel-shelf, and talk of the rat- 
tling fun of the old soldier days, with a sigh 
for the dead and a laugh for the living; and 
if you were in Company M on that famous 
raid, you’ll suddenly say: 

“And, by the way, old fellow, whatever 
became of the little black mule?’'' 

Then Oester, with a smile on his lips and 
in his eyes, will rise, and all of you will troop 
out to a paddock near by, where an old, old 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


II4 

mule, with many white hairs shining on his 
glistening coat (he’s curried and rubbed down 
every day by Oester himself), is standing 
knee-deep in luxury. 

^‘Jet, old boy!” Oester says, and the beast 
trots — not as he did down the Sandtown 
Road, though, — over to the bars, and rubs 
his nose on the broad shoulder, and wags his 
round tail, not fast but yet decidedly; and 
each child strokes him, and two whip an 
apple and lump of sugar out of their pockets 
and beg him to eat them. 

And then Oester laughs and says: “Do 
you remember the little red mule that left 
Heintzelmann sticking in the mud the morn- 
ing the Johnnies cut us in half?” 

And when you nod and laugh, too, at 
the memory of the ridiculous, long-legged 
trooper sitting on the saddle in the bog, and 
the wicked little red mule careering through 
the woods, he will say: 

“I’m sure I saw him in ’69, when I went 
down there to try to find Schwartz’s body — 
to give it a Christian burial, you know; for 
we had got pretty well out of debt, and 
O’Keefe’s mind had begun to clear perma- 
nently, and we agreed to do it. Well, I 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


II5 

looked around for some sort of wagon to 
take me out from the station, and I saw an 
old darky working in a field near by — trying 
to work I mean; for his mule, scored with 
scratches, blind in one eye, harness-galled, 
and thin as a rail, was kicking like the very 
old scratch. 

“ ‘Hi there Uncle!’* I said, ‘can you take 
me over — ’ 

“Just then the mule made a furious lunge 
at him. 

“ ‘Laws a-massy! there, you good-for- 
nothin’, wall-eyed, or’nary muel, you! How 
long you ’specs I’se gwine to put up wid dis 
here owdacious ’havior? I’ll take de skin 
offen yo’ bones, an’ sell you to de ’monia 
[ammonia] factory. How you like dat, hey? 
’Scuse me, marse’, what dat you gwine to 
say? ’ 

“ ‘Can you take me over the Sandtown 
Road?” 

“ ‘Dunno, sah.’ 

“ ‘I’ll give you two dollars to do it.’ 

“ ‘Two dollahs! Hear dat, you lim’ o’ 


* In the old days every well-bred young person, 
white and colored, called the old and respectable 
darkies, “Uncle” and “Auntie.” 


Il6 WITH KILPATRICK. 

Satan?’ — to the mule. ‘Is you gwine to 
’have yo’self, and let yo’ mawster yearn dat 
money, hey? Dat’s a heap, sah.’ 

“ ‘Well, come along,’ I exclaimed, impa- 
tiently. ‘Where did you get the beast?’ — 
as he untackled the plow and pulled a small 
ramshackle, spring (-less) wagon toward 
those agile heels, on which he kept an eye. 

“‘He corned, sah. ’Twar in ’64, ’bout 
the time Killumpatrick was a-raidin’ an’ 
a-tearin’ round dese here parts; dere’d been a 
smart bresh in de woods over yander, and de 
rebels an’ de Unions dey jes’ went higgle-dy- 
piggledy ober de kentry; an’ dis here muel 
come a-runnin’ into the plantation cober, an’ 
fust thing he done was to back heself agin 
my ba’n doah, an’ mos’ kick de hinges off; 
an’ fum dat time I ain’t had nuffin’ but kickin’ 
an’ fightin’ — mighty little wuk, you imp, you! 
— fum mawnin tell night.’ ” 

Then, after you have laughed at the fate of 
the mule that shirked duty, and ran away so 
as to take life easily, you will go into the 
house, and spend a pleasant hour where love 
and good-will reign; and then the men and 
maids will drop in, and Oester and his family 
will kneel and say the Rosary (and you will 


WITH KILPATRICK. 


II7 


notice that Denbigh and O’Keefe kneel side 
by side, and that Denbigh’s hand and shoul- 
der are what help O’Keefe up and down);- 
and then the household will bid one another 
a friendly good-night, and you will lie awake 
a few minutes to think of the strange and 
beautiful results that, through the grace of 
God and the prayers of Our Lady, worked 
out of those five days with Kilpatrick. 




THE 


JOSE-MARIA. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


I. 

T hat was a very black day for the 
inmates of the little grey cottage just 
beyond Gloucester, — the day the Elizabeth 
Jane came stalking in like a ghost out of the 
clinging mist: the first ship home of the long- 
looked-for fishing fleet. It needed only a 
glance to discover that something was wrong 
with her; for her flag hung at half mast, and 
her anchor was let go without the usual 
cheer. The groups on shore looked at one 
another with pallid faces, and hearts beat fast 
in the grip of fear; for no one knew just 
where the blow would strike. 

But not even these anxious ones shrank 
from the truth as nervously as the stalwart 
skipper of the Elizabeth Jane ; for he had to 
break it to the little woman who stood some- 
what apart from the others, with two babies 
hanging to her skirts, and a sturdy, bare- 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


I2I 


legged boy standing at her side. He would 
rather have faced the fiercest “norther” that 
could rage ; for his news was that her hus- 
band, Eliakim Barlow, A. B., had met with 
the fate of so many who go to the Grand 
Banks for the “catch,” — that he would never 
hand and reef and steer again, nor look on 
the faces of his children, nor answer any hail 
from mate or friend, “till the sea gives up its 
dead.” 

It was a story old in its monotone of a 
hundred years of happening on that coast, 
but as new and awdul to the widow as if she 
had never started up from her sleep a score 
of times, shrieking aloud, with its terror fore- 
shadowed in her dreams. 

And the way of it was old, too. He had 
gone in the dory early one morning to look at 
the trawls — young Dan Frost with him, — and 
the fog had come down on them, and then — 
well, well ! God help the sailor-man adrift on 
the great Atlantic, with the fogs smothering 
his chances for life, and the mysterious tides 
that ebb and flow about the Banks clutching 
at him, and dragging him to his death ! 

The captain got through his story some- 
how, but he combed the sweat from his fore- 


122 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


head with his horny hand and shook his 
bushy head when he finished ; for, instead of 
shrieking and fainting, she listened in abso- 
lute silence, after the first gasp of anguish ; 
and then turned in a dazed, blinded way, and 
stumbled unsteadily back to the hut, where 
everything was scrubbed to shining neatness, 
and some humble attempt had been made at 
decoration to welcome the sailor’s return. 
She sat in the corner all evening, looking 
stonily in front of her, till the two little chil- 
dren cried at her knee, frightened by her 
silence and the strange look in her face. But 
though she patted the little tow-heads 
mechanically, it was one of the neighbors 
who put them to bed and hushed their sob- 
bing ; while another kindly tried to comfort 
her with words and sympathetic tears, shed 
half in memory of a similar grief, and half 
bedause of the dry, stricken eyes of the other. 

But not then nor for years after did poor 
Idella Barlow know the relief tears bring ; 
and the old wives shook their heads and 
whispered to one another that she’d been 
“called,” and would soon follow her husband 
to the heaven of such grieved hearts, — the 
heaven “where there is no more sea.” 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


123 


Far into the night the women came and 
went, and ’Liakim’s shipmates stood in 
twos and threes about the doorway, their 
sou’westers off in the presence of that silent* 
grief. But in a few days the ripple was past ; 
other ships came staggering in from the flying 
death of the great deep, and some never 
made port at all ; and in many of the fisher- 
man’s huts the fierce struggle for bread 
choked the cries of the widow and orphan, 
and numbed sympathy and heart-break alike. 

Ah ! those women of Gloucester know what 
is meant by that strange verse in the Old 
Testament : “Weep not for him who dieth, 
but for him who goeth into a far country ; for 
he shall return nevermore.” The wind 
means death to them, the mist is a shroud, 
the sea is a vast grave, and the fish — they 
have a song about the fish, learned from their 
Scotch sisters, and one verse runs : 

“Buy my caller herring ! 

^They’re bonnie fish and wholesome faring. 

Buy my caller herring, new-drawn from out the 
Forth. 

When you are sleeping on your pillows 
Dream you aught of our poor fellows, 

Darkling as they face the billows. 

All to fill our woven willows ? (creels) 


124 


THE JOSE-MARIa. 


Buy my caller herring ! 

Thej^’re not brought here without brave daring. 
Buy my caller herring. You little know their worth. 
Who’ll buy m}' caller herring ? 

O you may call them vulgar faring I 
)Vives and mothers most despairing 
Call them ‘Lives of Men.’”* 


The season that followed was a dreadful 
one ; and, though Dick did all a boy of twelve 
could do, affairs grew worse and worse, until 
the end came, and such an end ! He missed 
his mother one day, and only after a long 
search found her on the shore, dressed in her 
poor best, and gesticulating and talking to 
herself. 

ain’t dead. It’s all a mistake. Seth 
Baxter’s a reel good man, but he ain’t got 
’Liakim’s me-ssage straight. He didn’t stay 
in thet dory. He got aboard his own ship 
thet was anchored off the Banks, and went 
a cruise to the West Injies ; fur thet left lung 
was a lee-\\& teched. An now he’s a-comin’ 
home, a’ we’re goin’ to be reel comf’table. I 

kin see the topsails of the Idella — yes, thet’s 
• 

* Their “faring” is the cod, but it is the principle 
that makes them akin. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


125 


what he calls her, — the Idella o' Gloucester. 
Them’s the topsails arisin’ over theer, an’ I 
shouldn’t be a mite s’prised ef he made port 
to-night.” 

She spoke so confidently that Dick looked 
seaward quite bewildered, but he only saw 
two little white clouds drifting and shifting 
on the horizon ; and then he looked again at 
the face of his mother, and her glittering eyes, 
bright color and strange, eager look bore in 
upon him the awful fact that she had “gone 
luny. ” He would have liked to sit down and 
bury his face in her apron and cry ; but he 
was the man of the family now, and not only 
had to keep up his courage but to think, and 
think quickly, what had best be done. 

“Don’t you see, Dick?” she said, waving 
her hand and nodding. “Daddy’s cornin’, 
an’ then you kin go to school, and Mollie an’ 
Ginnie ” (these were the twins, whose “given 
names” were Mary Ginevra and Ginevra 
Mary) “kin have some little shoes an’ some 
new dresses, an’ /’ll take it easy fur a spell. 
Gimme some of them hollyhocks here ; your 
daddy al’ays liked to see me with ’em in my 
hair when I was a gell. Gimme the red ones ; 
he says they look best with my kind o’ hair, 


126 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


Don’t Stand starin’ like a stockfish, boy ! 
Theer’s the posies — under your nose theer. ” 

Dick did look like a stockfish as he gaped 
in astonishment; for the hollyhocks ” his 
mother pointed to were nothing but a 
bunch of seaweed — kelp or pulse — of such a 
dull sage-green that only a mad fancy could 
have imagined it a bright flower. And his 
dismay grew when, snatching up the weed, 
she shook down her hair — streaked through 
all its black tendrils with broad bands of 
white, — and twined it fantastically in and out, 
the “ Jacob’s-tears ” and bits of sea-grass flut- 
tering in the wind that blew softly in with the 
turning tide. 

“Theer!” she said. “I guess thet’ll do. 
Now I’d better go home an’ cook a mess of 
picked--up cod against his cornin’ in. He 
says I kin beat any cook he knows a-doin’ 
thet:' 

And she walked by his side, talking on and 
on till they reached the hut ; and then Dick 
shot off as fast as he could go to the summer 
hotel to ask the gentleman he had been row- 
ing about all day to come down and look at 
his mother, for he had heard him called Doc- 
tor; and, on his way he asked the Widow 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 1 27 

Bascom to go up and stay with her till he got 
back. 

It was a long tramp there and back, but 
the Doctor had taken a fancy to the boy in 
the fishing and rowing excursions they had 
made together, and he came without a word. 
And Dick never knew till long after that he 
had called in one of the most famous nerve 
specialists of the day, and that he had been 
given gratis that which money could hardly 
purchase. Doctor M prescribed a seda- 

tive, and said, “Humor her, but watch her"' 

Luckily, the madness ran in the one 
groove, and every day its phases were 
repeated with the regularity of clock-work : 
the morning would see her hopeful, the after- 
noon excited over the imaginary sails she had 
sighted; the evening. was busily and happily 
filled with household cares ; but the night 
would leave her prostrated with the disap- 
pointment. The only change apparent was 
in bad weather. Then she grew restless, and 
could not be kept in the house at all, but 
would stand for hours exposed to the force of 
the storm, her eyes shielded under her hand, 
peering through rain and fog for the ship 
that was never built by mortal shipwrights ; 


128 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


and any effort to take her home or to restrain 
her resulted in violent struggles and scream- 
ing attacks that exhausted her terribly. 

The town committee took up the matter 
finally, and made arrangements to put her in 
the Asylum for the Pauper Insane, to put the 
twins into the poor-house till further provis- 
ion could be made for them, and to bind Dick 
out to Seth Baxter as cabin-boy aboard the 
Elizabeth Jane. But on the morning the pro- 
perly commisioned authorities came to put 
their well-meant plans into execution, they 
found the hut closed, the key hung on the 
door, and a badly spelled but honestly meant 
card asking that the “furncher will be soled 
to pay the rent, as we ain’t got enny munney 
fur it.” 

Then someone remembered vaguely having 
heard of a brother of Idella’s, who lived ‘ ‘ down 
South, in Jersey or Virginia or some place 
about theer,” and after some little speculation 
the group dispersed. A few censured the silent 
flitting, but the majority commended it — for 
there is nothing a native born American fights 
so shy of as a poor-house, — and all agreed that 
“ thet boy had a hefty load to kerry.” As 
indeed he had. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


I2Q 


II. 

O F LATE years this brother had been 
remembered almost as vaguely by Idella 
herself, as his name and whereabouts were by 
the good folks of Gloucester ; for when she 
was born he was a bearded man sailing round 
the Horn and trading in the marts of China 
and the East Indies. But there was one 
member of the family who cherished him 
as a hero, and this was Dick. Ever since he 
had first heard of him, and though the 
material on which his imagination had to feed 
was scanty, he had erected him into such a 
substantial being that it seemed perfectly 
natural to bear down on him when, by the 
doctor’s aid and connivance, they gave the 
slip to the well-disposed public officers who 
wished to provide for them at the public 
expense. 

So one fine afternoon, as Jonas Judkins sat 
in front of his house in the town of Lewes, 
Delaware, comfortably smoking his pipe. 


130 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


with one or two brother tars, a small, ragged 
urchin darted up to him and piped shrilly : 
^‘A crazy woman’s a-askin’ fur you at the 
deppo” (depot) ; then ran to the curbstone to 
enjoy the effect of his announcement. 

It was not what he expected; for Jonas, 
serene in the consciousness that he didn’t 
know any crazy women, and did know little 
Tic Stokes and his ways, said nothing, but 
went on smoking with a disregard peculiarly 
galling to the bearer of really stirring news. 

“I say, Mr. Judkins, this is honest Injun. 
Thar’s a crazy woman a-askin’ an’ a-hollerin’ 
fur you at the deppo, an’ a boy ’bout as big’s 
me a-tryin’ to hush her up, an’ two little 
baby gals a-whimperin’, an’ a whole lot o’ 
people a-tryin’ to — ” 

“I think,” said Jonas slowly, taking his 
pipe from his mouth and blowing aside the 
smoke, ‘‘that a good rope’s end laid on that 
boy lively would be a blessin’ and a kindness ; 
and I, fur one, don’t never grudge a kindness 
to a widder’s son that ain’t got no father to 
bring him up the way he should go.” 

And the other skippers took their pipes out 
of their mouths and grunted : “Aye, aye ! ” 


THE JOSE-MARIA. I3I 

Whereupon Master Tic, sorely alarmed for 
his wiry legs and muscular back, bawled : 

“’Deed an’ ’deed an’ double deed, cross- 
my-heart-an’-die-like-a-dog, ef it ain’t so !” 

Now, this along the coast is a stronger 
proof of truth than an affidavit, and so Jonas 
knew ; wherefore, laying down his pipe, he 
got up and walked toward the boy, saying 
harshly, 

“Stop your foolin’, you little sprat, and 
tell me what you’re drivin’ at.” (He had no 
notion he was rhyming.) 

“Thar’s a crazy woman at the deppo,” 
began Tic, whimpering and ducking away 
from the big sailor; “an’ she’s a-askin’ fur 
you an’ a-cryin’ — look here,” he broke off 
suddenly; “I ain’t agoin’ to tell you no more. 
I done give you the facts oncet, an’ I ain’t 
agoin’ to do it agin, with you a-swaggerin’ 
an’ a-bullyin’ me that a- way. ’Tain’t fair, so 
thar ! ” 

And he dug eight surprisingly dirty 
knuckles in two aggrieved e3^es. 

“ Thet’s so,” said Jonas. “Here’s a penny 
an’ my ’pology along with it. But your’re 
such a little liar,” he added, with the frank- 
ness peculiar to primitive peoples, I never 


132 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


know when to believe you. Thar was a boy 
oncet that hollered wolf — ” 

“I say there, Cap’n ! There’s a queer 
racket at the deppo. You’re wanted, and 
wanted dad, I should say,” broke in a new 
voice. 

It was one of the firemen off the evening 
train just in from Wilmigton; and, as he was 
a steady-going young fellow, of verbal habits 
quite different from those of Master Stokes, 
Judkins with a puzzled “I vum !” started for 
the little Gothic cottage which did duty as a 
station. He pushed his way through the 
crowd gathered in a compact ring at one end 
of the platform, and saw a woman wringing 
her hands and plucking at the arms of a boy 
who held her with a strength far beyond his 
years. Two little girls clung to each other 
near by, crying in a silent, suppressed way, 
as unnatural as it was pathetic. 

*‘I want my brother!” she was panting — ^ 
“my brother I Won’t somebody go tell him 
his own sister’s here ? — the one he brought 
the vases and shoes to from Chiny, tell him. 
Go quick, fur they’re a-tryin’ to take me 
away 1 I can’t git word to my husband, an’ 
ef Jonas don’t come, ’Liakim an’ the chib 


THE JOSE- MARIA. 


133 


dern’ll never know wheer I’ve gone to. I’ve 
lost my boy and my little gells ” — sobbing 
most pitifully, — ‘<an’ I do want my brother. 
Please go tell him ! ” 

And then she would begin all over again, 
repeating it until it was incoherent, and she 
would have to stop from exhaustion. And 
all the time the boy held her close, with set 
teeth, saying now and then, “Theer, marm, 
theer ! Don’t take on so. He’ll come pres- 
ently.” 

Who’s a-wantin’ me?” asked Jonas, in 
his clear, sharp voice. 

‘‘Be you Cap’n Jonas Judkins ? ” cried the 
boy, with new courage and hope lighting his 
face and tightening his tired arms. 

“Yes. What of it?” 

“Then you’re my uncle, an’ we’ve come to 
live with you.” 

“The dickens you have!” Jonas was on 
the point of saying ; but the forelorn group 
struck him silent for a moment, and then he 
said instead : “An’ who a.re you?'* 

“I’m Dick Barlow; an’ this here’s marm, 
your sister; an’ these is the twins.” 

“Lord, Lord!” muttered Jonas, with an 
inaudible whistle. “That can't be Idella ! 


134 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


Why she was a baby only t’other day, an’ this 
here’s a old woman with white hair and a 
handful of children ! What’s gone o’ your 
father ? he asked aloud, eying Dick sharply. 

He’s — he didn’t never come back from the 
Grand Banks. He went out to the trawls, 
an’ — the — fog — ” 

And poor Dick, too prpud to cry, too mis- 
erable to go on, stopped, choking. 

<‘Sho now ! ” said Jonas. “Thet’s too bad. 
What sort of a skipper did he hev ? ” — and a 
spark of fire burnt in his grey eyes. 

‘‘A good un,” answered Dick. “He sounded 
the horn an’ tolled the bell an’ fired the old 
flintlock all day. Then when it got dark he 
sent off the blue lights. But it come on to 
blow that night—” 

“ Humph ! Then he done his duty, an’ theer 
ain’t no call fur wrath fum me. But we must 
get away fum here. Hi there, Marshall! 
Fetch up one o’ your teams. An’ you git 
out I ” he said unceremoniously to the crowd, 
who listened as eagerly to the conversation as 
they had stared before. “Come Idella,” he 
went on, not ungently ; “come along home.” 

“Is ’Liakim theer ? ” she asked, looking out 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 1 35 

toward the breakwater against whose black 
breast the spray surged. 

‘‘I shouldn’t be surprised,” he answered 
desperately (though nothing would have sur- 
prised him more,) for <a lie, big or little, yaller 
or brown, stuck in his craw,’ as he always 
said of himself. 

“Then I’ll go,” she said promptly. “You’re 
his mate, I presume?” she added, with an 
interested look. “How is he ? And what sort 
of a sailer is the Idella ? She’s a pretty ship, 
an’ it was reel clever (good) of him to name 
her after me. Did he have any luck out theer 
in the West Injies ? I hope so, fur then he 
kin stay to Jhome a spell.” 

“What’s she a-talkin’ about ? ” asked Jonas, 
dismayed. And when Dick tapped his fore- 
head behind her back, and whispered to him 
to agree to everything she said, he hurriedly 
told him : “ Here, boy, you'^ better take your 
ma in tow, and I’ll manage the youngsters.” 

And he swung Ginevra Mary and Mary 
Ginevra up in his arms pretty much as a big 
mastiff might pick up two miserable stray 
kittens, and made for the dayton Marshall had 
brought, at a pace that set their little heads 
bobbing furiously, and impressed them with 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


136 

the fact that this big uncle was another sort 
of “steam-car” (locomotive), differing only in 
degree from the one that had shrieked and 
puffed all day long, trailing them so fast across 
the country that their eyes were dazzled, and 
jarring them so that every bone in their thin 
little bodies ached. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


137 


III. 

^^AP’N” Judkins had served his trick at 
life’s wheel manfully, and had deter- 
mined again and again to settle, as soon as “he 
was turned of fifty,” on a farm where cattle and 
crops and grass and “garden sass” were to 
spring in abundance all the year round — 
spontaneously it is to be presumed, for he 
knew no more about farming than any other 
sailor. But when “eight-bells struck” — his 
way of saying he was called for the evening 
watch of his days — he found the farms he 
looked at unsatisfactory. He missed some- 
thing, just what he could not define; but you 
may guess it from his complaint: “Smells 
kind o’ sweet — yes, but flat; an’ it’s so 
’tarnally still! Them hay-ricks and them 
houses hev been theer years, an’ I bet they’ll 
stay theer years. ” 

At last, after wandering through devious 
and sundry farming tracts, he fell upon Lewes, 
in a day when he had desperately rushed to 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


138 

the sea ’to git the smell o’ straw out o’ his 
nose.’ And there he could rest ; for the bloom- 
ing orchards, laughing fields, and emerald 
grazing lands of Delaware run down to the 
very water’s edge ; the fish-hawks carry their 
squirming prey over the corn tassels ; the sea- 
gulls pipe above ttie peach blossoms, and the 
masts of the shipping are seen between the 
tree-tops ; while around and beyond the break- 
water, away to the silver streak, the restless 
sea heaves or sleeps, raves -or smiles, as the 
great winds of the Lord bid it. 

But he bought a boat instead of a farm, and 
soon became known as the cleverest new pilot 
that had ever taken out a certificate among 
the natives ; and he had followed this trade 
for about ten years, when one night — it was 
in the November before the disaster at the 
Grand Banks — he was invalided for life. He 
was bringing in a ship bound from Norfolk to 
Philadelphia. She had discharged one cargo 
and was coming around “in ballast” for an- 
other. The sky was queer, and Judkins told 
the captain a heavy blow was at hand, and 
that he had better shorten sail. Like most 
merchant-men, however, she was sailing 
short-handed ; and, though such an order was 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


139 


given, either the sailors were too slow or the 
wind too quick ; for while they were still aloft 
the gale struck her, some of her top-hamper 
jammed, and over she went. How they got 
through that night is a mystery no landsman 
could understand. 

The younger men pulled out of it with no 
worse result than a few scars and the loss of 
their sea-chests, but Judkins got an inflam- 
matory rheumatism that stiffened his joints 
and made him so sensitive to cold that only 

fancy work” — summer piloting — was possi- 
ble. Then he leased his boat, bought a bit of 
ground, and proceeded to build a small house 
according to his own plans, all of which were 
drawn on the lines of a ship. There were 
cuddy-holes and lockers ; swinging tables and 
fixed berths for winter; hammock-hooks and 
hammocks- for summer ; and a flag-staff and 

quarter-deck” roof, with a hatchway, such 
as they have in Nantucket, where every fair 
evening (and many that were not fair) he took 
his exercise, with his glass under his arm, and 
almost tasted the sensation of again being 
afloat as the wind whistled or sighed about 
his ears. 

And this was the home to which he brought 


140 THE JOSE-MARIA. 

Idella and her children. With Dick’s aid he 
tucked the twins up very neatly and comfort- 
ably for the night (after a supper that ought 
to have given them a violent indigestion) in 
one of the winter berths, and he even set a 
bed-board in the edge; for, although it was a 
fine, starlight night, with only a crisp Octo- 
ber breeze frisking among the cat’s-paws in 
the Bay, he felt it was stormy weather for the 
two poor little lasses, whose father was dead 
and whose mother was crazy. 

The evening passed quietly, — Idella, either 
from bodily fatigue or the distraction of new 
surroundings, making no attempt to leave the 
house or to do her usual work, and falling 
asleep without her accustomed attack of cry- 
ing; so Dick and his uncle had a long talk 
together, which made them good friends — 
although it was conducted on much the same 
plan as a cross-examination, — and gave Jonas 
a full insight into the history of the family so 
suddenly foisted on him. After getting all 
the bearings, and smoking out three pipes 
over them, he charted a plan of life that verified 
all Dick’s dreams, and bound the boy’s heart 
to him with steel grapples. 

For several days these plans worked well. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


I4I 

but one Sunday morning a fog crept up the 
Bay and cast anchor alongside the town, and 
about ten o’clock Idella was missed. Jonas 
felt helpless for once in his life; but Dick 
immediately suggested “beating up” the 
beach, reminding his uncle how she used to 
spend hours at home keeping watch for the 
Idella of Gloucester. And he pointed sea^ 
ward, saying, 

“She’ll make fur thet by her scent.” 

Jonas thought this reasonable, but sud- 
denly his bronze face went white and his 
breath came almost in a gasp. 

“Lord,” he thought, “the mesh! She 
ain’t gone a- wanderin’ theer, I hope 1 ” 

A look at the boy’s careworn young face 
decided him to say nothing, however; so he 
tore off a great wad of tobacco, crammed it 
into his mouth — to stop it, — and, chewing 
fiercely at it, led the way toward the beach, 
followed by Dick, who trotted hard at his 
heels, like a faithful little dog. 

The white, breathless air wrapped them so 
close they could not see an arm’s-length 
ahead of them ; the roar of the sea was 
hushed — for the fog and the wind never come 
together, — and only the occasional voice of a 


142 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


sailor in the Bay or the church bells from the 
town broke the stillness. 

Before them out of the dimness started a 
fantastic shape, which they thought for an 
instant was the lost woman ; but it proved to 
be Master Tic, who was spinning round and 
round tike a teetotum. He brought up with 
a crash against Jonas, then carromed against 
Dick, and sat down, hard, on the shell road. 

You little varmint!” said Jonas, angrily; 
‘‘what you doin’ here ? ” 

“I’m a-practisin’ my callers-thenics fur 
school to-morrow,” answered Tic, blinking 
furiously. “Hullo, Dick I ’s that you? I 
seen your ma a while back,” he added, con- 
versationally, scrambling to his feet. 

“Wheer?” asked man and boy, excitedly. 

“Agoin’ along thar,” he answered, point- 
ing up the Bay shore. 

Jonas gave a sigh of relief and started off at 
a great pace, not knowing that Master Tic 
had entirely lost the points of the compass in 
his whirling. And they tramped several 
miles before seeing a sign of life, and then it 
was only an old net-mender who was cob- 
bling a seine against the next day’s fishing. 

“A ’ooman ?” he said, peering up at them, 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


H3 

and rubbing the wet from his beard with the 
back of his hand. “Naw, I ain't seen none. 
Though, toe be shore, she might a-parst me 
in this here fog close-to. Look an’ see ef thar’s 
any prints on the sand — it’s slack-water now.” 

But there were none, and Dick repeated 
once more his belief that she had made for 
‘‘th’open”; and they retraced their way, — 
Jonas assailed again by fears of the “mesh,” 
and Dick spent but plucky. 

Arrived at the causeway that leads across 
the marsh, Jonas felt obliged to put his anx- 
iety into words. But the boy answered : 

“ I don’t b’leeve she’s went that a- way ; fur 
we ain’t got no sich thing to home, an’ it 
wouldn’t be nateral fur her to go in new tracks. 
I sorter guess she’s followed the bend o’ the 
shore, wheer her feet’ll tech sand all the way.” 

Poor little fellow, he was wise with the 
wisdom of sorrow ! 

“Is that so?” asked Jonas, eagerly. 
“Then we’ll steer ’long the foot o’ the Ridge 
here, an’ mebbe come up wi’ her afore she’s 
gone fur. I’ve heern, aye an’ knowed, of 
people lost in a space, ’thout compass nor 
log, an’ they’d just go round an’ round in a 
circle tell they was wore out.” 


144 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


And they went on and on, through the 
heavy sand, until Dick began to wonder if he 
wasn’t having one of those drerms in which 
the dreamer strains every muscle and moves 
legs and arms in violent effort to get ahead, 
but for all that finds himself planti Ih. After 
what seemed an interminable time, Jonas, 
who was in front of him, stopped suddenly 
and started back, with a look of discomfiture 
on his face. 

“What’s the matter ?” asked Dick. 

“Nothin’,” was the answer. “But we’re 
midway to the Light. What’s that noise ? ” 
— as a strange, sad wail drifted to their ears. 

“Sh-h!” said . Dick. “Thet’s her now. 
Hear her a-singing’? Wonder wheer she is ? 
Why, here’s a house ! ” he cried in surprise, 
as a small frame building loomed up out of 
the mist. “Won’t the folks just be s’prised 
when they come home fum meetin’ to find 
marm a-scrubbin’ an’ a polishin’ their pots 
an’ pans!” And he chuckled. But Jonas 
shook his head, and the sombre look on his 
face deepened. 

“Who lives here uncle ? ” 

“Nobody,” said Jonas, shortly. 

“Land!” said Dick, with wide eyes. “I 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


145 


want to know! Why don’t nobody live here? ” 

Jonas looked around uneasily, and, lower- 
ing his voice almost to a whisper, said: 

“On account o’ the Crawl bein’ so near.” 

“What’« the Crawl ?” 

But Jonas only said : “Belay theer. Let’s 
get your ma out, an’ make fur home.” And ► 
he strode ahead and pushed open the door 
that hung on one hinge. 

Idella knelt at an open hearth, on which 
burnt a large fire of drift-wood ; and she was 
crooning as she polished a tin plate half-eaten 
with rust. 

“Thet you, Dick?” she called, cheerily. 
“I certainly am glad you’ve come in. I 
thought /’d got lost oncet, an’ ef it hadn’t 
a-ben fur the sound o’ th’ old organ out theer 
a-swellin’ an’ a-heavin’ I don’t b’leeve I’d 
a-made it. Wheer’s the fish, boy, and what- 
ever’s gone with the dishes ? I can’t find 
a-one excep’ this here, an’ it’s a sight to see.” 

“Why, marm, we’ve moved — don’t you 
’member ? An all the fixin’s is up at th’ 
other house.” 

“Is thet so ?” she asked, dubiously. 

“’Course it is. Don’t you see the cobwebs 
a-hangin’ all aroun’, an’ the sand blowed in 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


146 

at the windows ? An^ jest look at thet plate. 
It’s a inch deep with rust.” 

Just then a puff of wind thumped softly in 
at the door, and the sand that lay drifted 
over the floor stirred and eddied. Jonas 
looked at it with a strong repugnance and 
said : 

Hurry up theer, boy. The locker’s 
empty” — tapping his stomach, — ^^an’ it must 
be nigh on to eight-bells.” 

Who’s thet ? ” asked his sister. 

<‘Thet’s the mate o’ th’ Idella,'' said Dick, 
— then he made a pretense of whispering — 
<*an’ I think he’s hungry, marm.” 

“O’ course he is,” she said, briskly; “an’ 
’Liakim would think hard of me ef I let him 
go hungry. Won’t you come home to take a 
bite with us?” she added turning pleasantly 
to Jonas. “Will the Cap’n be ashore 
to-night ? ” 

“N — not to-night,” stammered Jonas, trip- 
ping again over what seemed a lie to him. 

And they started out the door, to find that 
the fog was stirring and wavering in a wind 
that began to cut wide lanes and furrows 
through it before they had gone a mile on 
their homeward way. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


147 


IV. 

I T WAS not only nearly but quite eight- 
bells * when they started ; and before they 
reached the causeway the short October day 
had drawn to its close, and the three figures 
toiling along were the only signs of life id the 
strange and desolate surroundings. 

Sixteen miles of sand-walking is no joke, 
so poor Dick suddenly sank in a little bone- 
less heap and cried out — as steadily as he 
could, for his panting breath and trembling, 
aching muscles : 

* The watches are divided into periods of four 
hours each, except the two dog-watches, which are 
only two hours long — 4 to 6 and 6 to 8 p. m. All are 
counted off by the strokes of the ship’s bell, one 
stroke for each half-hour. A sailor’s time-table is as 
follows : 

1 bell— 1:39, 4:30, and 8:30, a. m.; 12:30, 4:30, and 8:30, p. m. 

2 bells— 1, 5, and 9, a. m.; 1, 5, and 9, p. in. 

3 bells— 1:30, 5:30, and 9:30, a. m. : 1:30, 5:30, and 9:30, p. m. 

4 bells— 2, 6, and 10, a. m. ; 2, 6, and 10, p. m. 

5 bells— 2:30, 6:30, and 10:30, a. m.: 2:30, 6:30, and 10:30, p. m. 
6 bells— 3, 7, and 11, a. m.; 3, 7, and 11, p. ra. 

7bplls— 3:30, 7:30, and 11:30, a. m. :3:30, 7:30, and 11:30, p. m. 
8 bells— 4, 8, a. m., and 12, m,; 4, 8, p. m., and 12, m. 


% 


148 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


“Git ahead, uncle. I’ll follow ’long’s 
soon’s I git rested a bit.” 

It was good advice, and Jonas was in favor 
of it ; but Idella sat down by him, and, pat- 
ting his hand, asked: 

“Be you tired, Dicky boy ? Well, so’m 1. 
An’ it’s a good idee to rest. It’s pleasant 
here, too, hain’t it ? ” 

“Whew!” muttered Jonas, “that is a 
crazy idee ! I wisht to glory she hadn’t took 
up wi’ sich.” 

And the deepening shadows lent so much 
of their sombre mystery to the scene that 
“pleasant” it assuredly was not. The sun 
was dropping below the horizon, red and ray- 
less, tangled in the last wisps of the fog ; an 
equally red and rayless moon floated on the 
water-line of the eastern sky. The sea 
heaved in long grey rollers, gashed with a 
wavering line of crimson light — “fur all th’ 
world,” said Jonas to himself, “like the man- 
eater* we once hauled abord th’ old Alby-tross 
off o’ Hayti, an’ slashed wi’ our cutlasses tell 
he thrashed and bled to death, wi’ his wicked 
grey eyes a-gleamin’, an’ his jaws a-snappin’ 


* Man-eating shark. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. I49 

like castanets when the Kachuky’s* a-bein’ 
danced.” 

From the shoal water rose the masts and 
cross-trees of seven vessels that went down 
with all hands aboard in the big gale of ’77; 
the broken cordage still dangled about them, 
swaying back and forth in the wind as if 
ghostly fingers were ‘‘hauling home”; ^nd 
high above them — invisible in the growing 
night — the sea-birds whistled shrilly, sound- 
ing for all the world as if the dead boatswains 
were piping their men up from Davy Jones’s 
to sail one more race for life. 

Between these mournful bits of wreckage 
and the silent little group of three lay the 
“ Mesh,” its ooze laced with the broad silver 
ribbons of the tide, now flowing in so swiftly 
that, even as they watched, the wide brown 
slashes were changed into a shivering waste 
of water. Back of them rose the lofty dune, 
that trailed its blight through the rich land ; 
and thrusting from its tidal wave of sand were 
scores of blasted pines, that reflected in mul- 
tiplied outlines the sea-wrecks opposite. 


* Cachuca. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


150 

The wind grew brisker, and the soft whiz of 
the sand could be heard scudding by. 

“Look a-heer, boy!” said Uncle Jonas, 
somewhat harshly. “Be you goin’ to set 
theer all night ? ” 

Dick looked up surprised at the tone, but 
scrambled stiffly to his feet, and in his sturdy 
way began to make the best of things. 

“What was it you called this place a piece 
back, uncle ?” he asked. 

“Called what place ?” 

“Why, this here place.” 

“There’s a hull lot o’ names,” answered 
Jonas reluctantly. “Some folks ’round here 
calls it the Sand Crawl, and some calls it the 
Whirlin’ Dune, an’ some calls it the Sand 
Mountain ; but I tell you theer ain’t any name 
that’ll fit it — ’thout you call it the Devil’s 
Own.” 

And he spat out angrily the last shreds of 
his great tobacco wad. 

“ Land o’ Goshen 1 ” said Dick. “What’s 
the matter wi’ it, uncle ? ” 

Ev'y thing was the reply. “Look at 
them dead men a-layin’ out theer. A. B.’s 
ev’y mother’s son of ’em, ’cept the cabin- 
boys ; an’ even they died like little men here 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


I5I 

afore our eyes, an not a boat could be got 
afloat to save ’em. Look at this here Mesh. 
What is it but th’ old Hoornkille Flats, that’s 
red with the blood of the massacree that 
wiped out the Dutch, an’ chock-full o’ quick- 
sands that suck down all they can git hold of? 
Look at that crawlin’, smotherin’ devil theer ! 
Is it like any sand that ever God’s sea 
throwed up afore ? Certain’y not ! Did 
y’ever see sand that knowed how to chart an’ 
navigate afore ? Certain’y not ! Did y’ever 
see sand that gripped whatever it took a 
hankerin’ fur, an’ wrapped around it, an’ 
squeezed th’ life out o’ it, an’ chawed it an’ 
mauled it, an’ then spit it out when it was 
through wi’ it ? I bet a cookie you never did 
— no, nor anybody else neither, ’cept them 
that’s seen this here — ” 

Aversion and anger seemed to choke him. 
But Dick had heard quite enough for the 
Ridge to become invested with a ghastly 
fascination, and he went the rest of the dis- 
tance in a fashion that could have been most 
accurately described by the phrase ^^■barbe cl 
V ipaule^"' if his sharp little chin had not been 
years too young for a beard. 

And certainly as the moon shook loose 


152 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


from the mist and began to climb up the sky, 
getting brighter and cleaner the higher she 
went (the way with all of us), it was an im- 
pressive object, lying like one of the great 
dragons of legend, stretched over two miles 
of ground, and ending far away seaward in a 
lofty bluff (not unlike a head reared for a 
better view), on the crest of which burnt the 
Henlopen Light — a fiery eye that watches 
unwinkingly over the fate of all the poor 
Jackies afloat in these waters. 

A dozen questions stirred in the boy’s 
mind, but he was by this time semi-uncon- 
scious with fatigue; the last part of the jour- 
ney was made mechanically, and he had to be 
steered into the home-door by his uncle ; then 
he was vaguely aware of hot coffee and cold 
milk being poured down his throat — inside 
and out, — of being pulled and hauled at, and 
finally of being let blissfully alone to sleep, 
which he did from seven o’clock until nearly 
the same hour next morning. 

This “next morning” was an era in Dick’s 
life. He began school that day. He had a 
brand new suit of clothes, including a hat 
and shoes ; and when he saw the sunshine he 
felt there was something so personally jolly 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


153 


in it that the Sand Crawl, with its gruesome 
associations, passed for the time from his 
memory. His breakfast was eaten standing, 
with his precious satchel of more precious 
books on his back ; and as he crossed the 
threshold there rose from the curbstone to 
meet him Master Tic. 

‘‘Thought I’d go ’long an’ interduce you,” 
he said. Then he doubled over in noiseless 
and prolonged mirth. “Jimminy!” he 
gasped as he straightened up, ^^won't thar be 
a circus ? Oh, no, I reckon thar won’t. Not 
much ! ” — this last derisively addressed to the 
world at large. 

“What’s up ?” asked Dick, briefly. 

“Well, you see, thar’s Froggie Mason — 
call him Froggie ’cause he swells ’round so — 
he said he’d give you a good lickin’ the day 
you fust come to school, so’s to stiddy you 
an’ make you know your place. An’ I’m just 
a-laughin’ fit to bust to think how ’stonished 
he’ll be when you git that grip onto his wool 
you got onto mine the fust day I tried can- 
traptions wi’ you.” And again he shut up 
like a jackknife, while his suppressed laugh- 
ter made the tears stand in his eyes. 

“It’s a pity ’bout thet fightin’!” thought 


154 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


Dick; “fur I wanted to git a merit mark 
straight along ; but ef thet’s the way it’s 
a-goin’ to be, why thet’s the way it will he.’^ 
All he said aloud, however, was : ‘‘Is thet so? 
Bring on your Froggie, an’ I’ll do my best fur 
the credit o’ the family; fur you know. Tic, 

“ ‘Hardest whacks 
Is stillest fac’s.’ ” 

At which Tic rubbed his grimy paws with 
glee, and smacked his lips as if he were about 
to eat something very appetizing. 

So it happened that when Everard Come- 
gys, schoolmaster, entered the school enclos- 
ure he saw the boys in a solid triple ring, 
their necks all craned toward a common cen- 
tre, and the girls darting about like petrels 
before a gale ; and he knew there was a battle 
a r outrance going on. 

“What is this ? ” he asked, sternly. 

There was a sudden gap in the circle, but 
one of the big boys seized him imploringly 
by the arm and begged: 

*‘Don'l stop ’em, please, Mr. Comegys ! 
That little Yankee beggar has just got Frog- 
gie’s head in chancery, and is polishing him 
off finely.” 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


155 


‘‘Stop this fighting instantly ! ” commanded 
the master, though his pleasant mouth 
twitched under its young moustache ; for it 
was only last year he had quit that sort of 
thing himself, and had got the diploma that 
entitled him to his present dign^t3^ 

He laid a forcible hold on the two collars 
and pulled the comoatants apart — that is, he 
pulled Dick; Froggie fell willingly away, for 
he had been terribly punished: his nose 
streamed blood, his eyes were shut up, and of 
such a color that neither raw oysters nor raw 
beef would save them from rainbow hues; 
one cheek stood out as if he had a small 
apple stuffed in it, and his forehead was 
decorated with several large lumps. 

“Who began this ? ” Mr. Comegys asked, 
looking curiously at Dick, who stood pas- 
sively enough in his grip, although his eyes 
were on fire and his hands clenching and 
unclosing in excitement. 

“I hit him fust, ef thet’s what you mean.” 

“Froggie sassed him fust,” piped a small 
urchin, who in his first knickerbockers felt 
very much of a man indeed. 

“Who are you?” asked Comegys of his 
captive. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


156 

“Richard Barlow, o’ Gloucester, Massy- 
chusetts.” 

“Ah, the new scholar ! Barlow, this is a 
bad way to begin. 

“No, sir,” said Dick, respectfully enough; 
“it ain’t neither.” 

“Ah!” said Comegys, rather taken aback. 
“How do you make that out ?” 

“He called my mother names,” said Dick, 
his breast swelling. 

“What’s this. Mason ?” 

“Well, she A,” whined Froggie through a 
most dilapidated nose. Ain't she a crazy 
Jane?” he asked, appealing to two of his 
satellites. 

“Ef you say that again,” shouted Dick, 
“I’ll bang you tell the bark’s off your hull 
body I ” 

“Mason,” said Comegys, as the situation 
flashed on him, — “Mason, I thought you 
wanted to be a gentleman ?” 

“Am one,” stuttered Mason. “ My father’s 
the richest man in Lewes — ” 

“And not all his money can gild you into a 
decent fellow so long as you think it fun to 
joke about the misfortunes of others. It is 
bad enough to laugh at their blunders and 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


157 


faults, but when you jest at a person on 
whom the hand of God is laid you are a brute. 
I am ashamed of you ! ” he added in a voice 
that made Mason wince and the other boys 
look suddenly as if the fight might have two 
aspects ; and they dispersed quietly, and took 
their seats fully five minutes before the bell 
rang. 

That five minutes Comegys spent talking 
with the new scholar, who attracted him 
strongly, and who outlined his pathetic story 
without the least idea it was pathetic, and 
wound up with. 

“Marm is queer in her head, but ef she 
was as crazy as skeezicks I’m not a-goin’ to 
let nobody say so to me. I’m all the man 
she’s got to fight fur her, now daddy’s 
slipped cable, — an’ I’m goin’ to fight hard/'^ 

Question followed answer, and later in the 
day, when the schoolmaster saw the boy’s 
intelligent face kindle as the different lessons 
went on, he made up his mind to ‘‘give him 
a chance”; and Friday evening, as the pent- 
up tide of children rushed roaring into the 
street, he said : 

“Barlow, if you’d like to hear a little talk 
I’m going to give the boys you might come 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


158 

to me to-morrow evening. There are eight 
or ten who will be there ; they come at .six 
and go at half-past seven. And they are the 
boys that have so many questions to ask dur- 
ing school hours that I cannot interrupt reci- 
tations to answer them all.’’ 

‘‘How d’you remember ’em ?” asked Dick, 
his eyes shining. 

•‘Oh, I don’t. Each one puts down on a 
slip of paper the thing he wants especially to 
know, and then they put all the slips in a box 
on my desk ; and then we shake the box up 
well, and one boy, who is blindfolded, draws 
the first slip his fingers touch ; theji that ques- 
tion is answered first, and the second slip 
drawn is answered next, and so on.” 

“Thank ’ee, sir!” said the boy, heartily. 
“I’d like that fust-rate. My, you must know 
a heap 1” 

“Not more than you can learn,” answered 
Comegys, laughing. 

“ Is ihet so ? ” asked Dick, his sad little face 
laughing too. “Sure you ain’t pokin’ fun?” 

“Sure.” 

“Well, then,” cried the boy with burst of 
resolution, “I’ll just hang on tell I learn it — 
ev’y bite, sup, an’ crumb ! ” 


THE JOSE-AMRAI. 


159 


V. 

D ick was the first “on deck” at the 
school-master’s on the evening named, 
and felt quite oppressed by the evidences of 
learning he saw — the quantity of books, the 
two globes, the small case of crucibles and 
retorts, and the diagrams and charts on the 
walls ; for Comegys was an enthusiast on the 
subject of teaching, and in this his first year 
was soaring high on the wings of faith and 
hope. But he received Dick so pleasantly 
that he soon began to feel like a live boy 
again, and to ask a question here and there ; 
and by the time the little “Seth Thomas” on 
the mantel made it six o’clock there was 
enough noise going for a small tea-party. 

Dick studied the boys who dropped in with 
some interest, and recognized in all of them 
hard diggers — fellows that always knew their 
lessons, and rarely relaxed themselves during 
study hours even with crooked pins or “sand 
poppers.” (This last is a fiendish instrument 


l6o THE JOSE-MARIA. 

that will silently and suddenly discharge a 
pint of sand at, in, on, or down any given 
point the marksman chooses.) But at the 
very last minute in darted Tic, as unkempt as 
usual, but wearing such a wide grin one 
almost forgave him for being bareheaded, 
barefooted, and bare-legged. In this last 
respect the bareness was unequally divided ; 
for while the right leg was clad to the calf, 
the left leg could boast of nothing from the 
knee down except one frayed streamer, which 
he calmly tore off and pitched into the 
master’s elegantly beribboned waste-basket. 

The studious ones glared incredulously at 
Tic — the laziest boy in school ; the boy who 
couldn’t or wouldn’t learn ; the boy who 
would stand before a blackboard scratching 
dolefully at his head, or rubbing his nose, or 
scraping one bare foot up and down the other 
bare leg by the ten minutes ; but never, never 
by any chance scratching anything on the 
board with the chalk, as his mother and his 
teacher expected him to do. Well, it cer- 
tainly was just like his “cheek” to come in 
here with them ! 

But Comegys’ welcome was unmistakable. 

“Ah, Stokes! I’m very glad you came. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. l6l 

Sit down ; we’re going to begin — or, better 
still, you do the drawing for us.” 

And, according to programme, the ques- 
tions were read answered and discussed until 
one slip came out which puzzled the school- 
master greatly. It was: “Wot is a werlen 
doom ? ” 

“This must be your own, Stokes,” he 
remarked at last. 

“Nope,” said Tic. “I didn’t write none. 
I would-a, but I lef’ my Spen-i-/-re-an pen an’ 
my cut-glass inkstand at home in my escree- 
ter” (escritoire?). 

And then something must have happened 
to one of Tic’s eyes. It seemed to get out of 
order, for it winked suddenly and violently 
several times in several directions, while the 
other remained perfectly still. 

“It’s — it’s mine !” said Dick, hot and flur- 
ried. “ I’m afraid it’s wrote bad.” 

“Well,” said Comegys, cheerfully, “it 
isn’t as well written as it will be a month 
from now, nor quite as well spelled. But 
suppose you help me a little with it, eh ?” 

“I mean,” said Dick, “the werlen doom 
out theer by the Mesh — mebbe you’d call it 
the Crawl, — that eats up all it wants, an’ spits 


i 62 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


out the chews; an’ goes wheer it’s a*mind to 
an’ ought to be called the ‘Devil’s Own,’ — 
my uncle, Cap’n Judkins, ses so,” he added, 
breathlessly, as Comegys still looked puzzled. 

“Oh, yes!” he said ; “I know now what 
you mean, and that is a very curious thing. 
It’s the only real whirling dune I ever heard 
of. Dune, Dick, — d-u-n-e. What is a dune? 
A hill of sand tossed up by the wind in a 
desert, or by the sea on the coast, -or by both 
the wind and the sea, like this one. Most of 
them shift within given limits — move as the 
wind moves, grow as the tides set, or form in 
low ridges or flat wastes ; but this one whirls 
about a centre of its own at the same time it 
is moving ahead. The motion is something 
like a cyclone, only the dune advances about 
twelve feet a year, and the cyclone one- hun- 
dred miles an hour. And there’s another 
strange thing about it : although it leaves 
such a tremendous trail behind it, the ‘head’ 
never diminishes in size, but goes on should- 
ering its big, strong way into the sea, as if it 
was bound to reach Cape May Light, as it 
will some day — ” 

“When?” broke in Dick, without the 
least idea of being impolite. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


163 

“Long after we are in the fix of ‘Imperial 
Caesar’ — ‘dead and turned to clay,’ Dick,” 
answered the master, pleasantly if somewhat 
pedantically (he was very young). “So 
there you are on the dune question. Its 
motion gives it the name of ‘the whirling 
dune,’ and its slowness the name of ‘the 
Crawl.’” 

“But what does it eat ?” asked Dick, who 
naturally only understood about half of the 
explanation. 

“It doesn’t eat anything, but whatever 
stands in its way gets swallowed, and — ” 

“Yep,” piped Tic, suddenly; “my maw 
5ays when she was ’bout as big’s me thar was 
a oak grove out thar by th’ Light — a ’mighty 
nice place fur picnics an’ junketin’s, — an’ 
now thar ain’t nothin’ of them trees left ’cept 
the dead tops a-stickin’ ’bout a foot out o’ th’ 
ground.” 

“So I have heard,” said the master, kindly; 
and then continued: “Whatever stands in 
its way gets swallowed ; and, as the whirling 
goes on steadily and the pressure of the sand 
is so immense, the trees and bits of drift- 
wreck and lumber are apt to show some trace 
of this grinding and gritting when they are 


THE JOSE- MARIA. 


164 

thrown out ; the trees occasionally have their 
branches broken to the trunk, and sometimes 
the bark is stripped off in patches ; the drift- 
wood is splint — ” 

Them’s the ‘fang-marks,’ an’ you may 
bet your sweet life the ‘spit-outs’ is got ’em 
on always ! ” 

Two of the other boys nodded at this, and 
even Wilson, whose geography was faultless 
and whose grammar nearly so, said : “That’s 
about so, Mr. Comegys.” Whereupon Tic, 
for the first time in his life, finding himself 
backed by a respectable majority, was so 
elated that he lost his head a bit, and not 
only took the floor but the conversation as 
well. 

“Hear that now? An’ Mr. Com-mergiss 
it does eat up what it wantster, an’ its got a 
mean [bad] temper. Don’t you ’member that 
little white house th’ old Portugee used to 
live in ? Well, th’ Crawl was a-headin’ on to 
that ’bout — ’bout a hundred year ago, — no, it 
couldn’t a-ben that long, but it was a awful 
long time ago. An’ the man that owned it 
moved it on rollers, an’ disappinted the 
Crawl of its snack [lunch] ; so thar ain’t no 
luck thar sence. He got killed in a battle, 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


165 

an’ the woman that come, she died ; an’ the 
Stuart boys, they got drownded ; an’ th’ old 
Portugee he went crazy, an’ — ” 

Tic’s voice had a dramatic ring to it, and 
he was talking to those in whose veins ran 
the blood of sailors, — sailors who see such 
strange sights as they float in the face of God, 
between His wide sea and wider sky, that 
they find it easier to believe in the supernat- 
ural than not; so a visible sensation was 
gathering when Comegys said : 

^^That all did happen, Stokes; although 
not because the Crawl wanted to make a meal 
of the little house and was disappointed, but 
because Gillette was a man-of-war’s man ; the 
woman had consumption, and the two boys 
were upset in a squall. Did you ever hear 
the rest of that story ? Well, here it is. 
Fred and Jan Stewart were splendid swim- 
mers, so they managed to get back to the 
boat and climb up on her keel; but Jan was 
swept off, and Fred plunged after him, catch- 
ing him by the collar as he washed past, and 
holding on through thick and thin. They 
must have been pitched against the boat 
more than once ; for one of Jan’s arms were 
broken, and Fred’s whole forehead was 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


1 66 

black ; but they came ashore just that way — - 
Fred gripping Jan’s collar. Every one said 
he could have saved himself if he had let Jan 
go, but that was just what he wouldn’t do. 
And I think to die in trying to save some- 
body’s else life is the very best death a man 
could ask.” 

And these sons of a volunteer lifeguard, 
such as is to be found on every shore where 
sailors risk their lives so willingly for fellow- 
men, answered in chorus, “Aye, aye, sir!” 
as readily as their own fathers would have 
done. 

“As for the old Portuguese,” concluded 
Comegys,- “he had a sunstroke first, and a 
hard life afterward.” 

“Mebbe,” said Tic; ‘*but that ajn’t all. 
Thar’s a ghost in the hut now!'" And he 
looked around triumphantly. 

**What nonsense!” said the master. 
<< What sort of a ghost ? One of Marshall’s 
white calves, I reckon ? 

“No, siree ! It’s a ’ooman ; an’ she sings 
an’ hollers like this here ” (an unearthly fal- 
setto yowl), “an’ — an ’ — she rattles chains!^' 
(this last in a sepulchral whisper). 

“But it goes wheer it’s a mind to, don’t 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 167 

it?” broke in Dick, desperately. He knew 
who the ghost was, and what she rattled. 

“No. It’s only a great hillock of sand 
that shifts and moves by some law we do not 
quite understand, deflecting here and keeping 
straight ahead there, for natural reasons. It 
couldn’t think for itself or plan for itself you 
know. And don’t you remember, the ridge 
doesn’t move or whirl, it’s only the head out 
there by the Light?” 

“ I’m mortal glad o’ that,” said Dick. “ I 
thought it went a-rampagin’ an’ a gallivantin’ 
wheerever it took a notion — like the sea- 
serpint. ” 

“Not at all. Look here, boys, suppose I 
take you over some Saturday? There’s a 
chance in the trip for a lot of historical infor- 
mation, and we can have a good time 
besides,” said Comegys, pleasantly. “The 
Light is scores of years — find how many — 
older than the State ; it has never been out 
but once — find out when ; and nobody knows 
how deep the foundation is. Look up all 
you can find on the subject.” 

He had timed his words so well that “sub- 
ject” and 7:30 came together; and the boys 
trooped ofi with their interest pretty well 
roused between the ghost, the proposed trip, 
and the three points of local history raised by 
the master. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


1 68 


VI. 


A nd that trip to Henlopen was taken in 
due time, but, although there was plenty 
of fun and a fair amount of information got 
out of it, Dick’s awe of the dune was 
increased rather than diminished ; for as they 
rushed up the swelling mound with a whoop 
and yell the keeper of the light ran out, and, 
with warning gesture and strangely hushed 
voice, told them to “be quiet and move slow, 
fur sometimes jest one word sharp-spoken 
’ud fetch a ship load o’ sand a-tumblin’ down 
off’n the edge o’ the whirl ; an’ he had seen 
things buried out o’ sight in a wink.” 

Don't it do it a-puppus? ” Tic had asked, 
his face so pale that the freckles actually 
seemed to hover above its surface. 

“No — yes — I dunno,” said the keeper. 
“Thar come times when I b’leeve it doos." 
and he rubbed his forhead so worriedly that 
Dick felt a tightening in his throat and a 
whirring in his little heart. “When the 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


169 

Equinoctials is on the whole thing gits to 
wrigglin’ an’ heavin’, tell it look *s ef it had 
come alive and was a-cruisin’ off on its 
own hook. Then agin it lays thar like one o’ 
them anny-condors in the jog-afies — a-gapin’ 
to bolt a meal. See what I mean?” And he 
pointed to where the white shaft of the light- 
house stood erect and lonely in the deep 
bowl of the dune’s whirl, — a bowl whose 
upper edges lipped hungrily toward the 
tower on a level with its second story 
windows. 

“How much longer can the light burn 
afore its eat up? ” asked Dick. 

This shocked the keeper back to reason. 

“Land o’ glory, boy, th’ light won’t never 
be eat up ! Th’ shaffW go mebbe ; but th’ 
light’ll burn, please God, tell His bo’s’n St. 
Gabr’el pipes fur all them poor chaps out 
there to tumble up an’ bear a hand aloft ! 

“What d’ye mean, then?” asked Dick. 

“Why, that th’ sand roller thar’ll curve 
over ’fore long an’ break — same ez them salt 
rollers down thar, — an’ a’other’ll rise an’ 
break, an’ a’other, tell th’ lantern ain’t mor ’n 
a story high, out o’ th’ smother. Then th’ 
inspector’ll come along an’ h’ist her up agin 


170 THE JOSE-MARIA. 

clar o’ th’ sand, like they ben a-doin’ fur two 
hundred an’ fifty year. Ev’y thirty year 
or so they splice her topmast, an’ time’s most 
up fur another rise.” 

And after this, although Dick believed the 
master thoroughly with his reason, his imagin- 
ation took to giving him nightmares. He 
would dream that the dune had left its bed in 
the sand, and crawled to the windows behind 
which his mother and the twins slept, and 
that it lifted its head and peered in, smacking 
its lips and gritting its fangs in a way that 
gave him the shudders. Or he would dream 
he was the light-house tower, and he could 
feel the stealthy Crawl winding its coils 
closer and closer around him, till he would 
spring up, fighting for breath. By daylight 
the phantasm and the feeling disappeared ; 
but the mysterious quicksands that changed 
their locale with every gale, the half-ruined 
house to which his mother wandered when- 
ever a brewing storm brought on one of her 
“spells,” and the desolation of bare branches 
and death-dealing sand, — they were always 
there ; so whether he saw the dune under the 
snows of winter or the moons of summer, or 
sunning its tawny length under the noondays 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


I7I 


of August, or frothing under the .winds of 
March, it came to be the shadow of his 
healthy, busy boyhood. 

With fine Yankee reticence he kept this to 
himself, however ; and so it happened that 
Mary Ginevra and Ginevra Mary, having 
nothing to dread from it, took first to follow- 
ing their mother to the “Portugee’s cabin”; 
and finally, the next year, they set up their 
dolls and housekeeping in the same spot, 
gradually accumulating great treasures in 
shells, broken bits of bright glass, crockery, 
and dilapidated tin-ware. 

Jonas had mended the door and windows 
one fair day, and the twins that spring tried 
to stake off a garden ; but the clams’ shells 
that marked its outlines had to be dug out so 
often that they gave it up in disgust, and sat 
among ‘‘pretend roses and lay locks and 
pinks,” when the dolls needed sunning. 
And here they met with their first personal 
adventure. 

It was the day Miriam Ethelinda, the 
oldest and dearest of the dolls, had been 
rescued from a violent death, Ginevra Mary 
having laid her in her sea-weed crib the Sat- 
urday before without properly hunting for 


172 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


the pin that marked the whereabouts of 
her nose ; she had therefore been sleeping for 
a whole week on her face, which made her 
breathing very bad indeed ; and the two dis- 
tracted little mothers dived in and out, like 
a pair of dabchicks, trying to revive their 
beloved rag darling 

“What have we here, eh?” said a big 
voice above them. And they looked up to 
see quite the pleasantest face they had ever 
known — dark skin, red cheeks, black eyes, 
curly black hair, the whitest of teeth, and a 
pair of bright gold ear-rings, shining against 
a sturdy neck that rose from out a sailor- 
shirt, embroidered with a spread eagle on 
one side, and a red, white and blue flag on 
the other. 

“A sick do — baby, I mean, mamzelles. Is 
it not?” 

They nodded. 

“Let me see: I am a good doctor, and I 
have a little something that will cure her at 
once.” 

And his brown fingers went into his pocket 
and came out filled with candied almonds. 

By this time he was sitting down, tailor 
fashion, gravely examining Miriam Ethelinda. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 1 73 

‘^Yes, yes: she has a fever, but I give her 
one little pill, so — ” 

‘‘Oh!’^ said Ginevra Mary; and Mary 
Ginevra said, ‘‘Don’t ! ” And then they both 
said : “ That's the back of her head you’re 

poking at, ^tain’t her mouth at all. //’s here. 

And they explained. 

He didn’t laugh a bit, but said: “I tell 
you she has a fever, yes ; but it’s a sort of 
fever that can’t be cured by taking the little 
pills herself : you have to take them for her — 
one each, till they are gone, so.” 

And he popped the candy in each little 
mouth, till even a far sicker doll must have 
felt quite cured. 

Then he said: “Now tell me your names.” 

And when they had generously responded 
by giving him not only theirs, but the names 
of the whole family as well, and its entire 
history, he told them he had two little sisters 
at home who were just as old as they were 
and had the same names — one was called for 
St. Genevieve, and one (here he lifted his 
cap) for the Holy Virgin. Ifts name was 
Ren6, and his ship was just in from France. 
He was walking over to look at the Lights 
and might he call on them again? 


174 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


And that was the beginning of the friend- 
ship which prospered daily for a week ; and 
then the Rosette de Lyons was cleared, and all 
that was left in Lewes of Ren6 Lenoir was a 
picture directed to Les petites desmoiselles 
aux Sables, '' and the loving remembrance of 
two childish hearts. 

The picture was a cheap but very pretty 
lithograph of La belle Jardiniere of Raphael, 
and there was much discussion about what 
should be done with it. Jonas didn’t care 
much but thought it was “kind o’ popish.” 
One of the ministers and several of the elders 
advised its being destroyed as “dangerous.” 
Comegys told them it was a good copy of a 
famous picture, and added : 

“And, then, you know when all is said 
and done, you can’t get away from the fact 
that the Virgin Mary was the Mother of 
Christ, just as much as my mother is mine 
and your mother is yours.” 

“Thet’s so,” began Jonas, when — 

“You sha’n’t have our pretty Lady ! ” sud- 
denly declared the two Ginevras. “ Ren6 
give it to us an' nobody else ! ” 

And, seizing it, they marched off to the 
Ridge with it, where, by the aid of sundry 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


175 


pins and tacks, they fastened it on the wall 
of the cabin, and it soon became a part of 
their lives and a companion in their plays. 

They acquired a habit of saying, “Good- 
morning, pretty Lady!” or, “How-de-do, 
Ma’am 1 ” and “ Good-night, pretty Lady 1 ” 
arguing with each other that “’cause she 
was God’s Mother they’d ought to be polite.” 
And they fell into a way of referring disputes 
to her with varying results. And Idella’s 
tired eyes found rest in the soft color and 
sweet face ; and several times the children 
caught her standing before it, looking at it 
and muttering. 

“ You^d ought to know ’bout ’Liakim. My 
Dick ’ud tell me^ an’ seems to me your Son 
’ud t&Wyou — ef you asked Him.” 

That phrase, “Mother of Christ,” seemed 
to have caught on some point of the dis- 
traught brain; and the two Ginevras, after 
hearing this repeated twice or thrice, began 
to discuss it themselves. 

Mary Ginevra believed her father was dead. 

“’Course he is. Don’t uncle and Dick 
b’leeve it?” she’d say, conclusively. 

But Ginevra Mary was made of sterner 
stuff, and flatly denied the premises. 


176 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


“That don’t make him dead,” she would 
answer. “ I wonder if the Lady yonder does 
know?” 

And then she began what she rarely 
omitted — to pop down on her little knees, 
either before the picture, or (when the winter 
broke up their journeys to the cabin) by her 
bunk or hammock, and to say: 

“Pretty Lady, Mother of Christ, please 
ask the Lord Jesus to send daddy home ef 
he’s alive ; an’ ef he ain’t, please to let us 
know he’s dead — reel dead ! ” 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


177 


VII. 


W RECKS and rescues, sun and storm, 
winter and summer were told off by 
God’s great clepsydra the sea, and one morn- 
ing Dick waked to find his sixteenth birth- 
day had come. Such a big Dick he had 
grown to be — tall, brown, hard-handed, with 
muscles he was secretly very proud of, and a 
faint little fuzz on his upper lip that he was 
very much ashamed of, and a steady, ready 
look in his grave grey eyes that gave Jonas 
great satisfaction ; for he had at last made up 
his mind, after four years of closest watching 
and careful weighing for and against, that he 
could “tie to” Dick,* and that the very 

* On the Mississippi River, when the great lumber 
rafts are drifting down stream, there is often occas- 
ion to lay over night at some point, and if the occas- 
ion is emphasized by a gale of wind or unusually 
high water it becomes a very important matter to 
find deep-rooted strong trees to which to attach the 
stay-ropes. It is often a difficult matter, and such 
trees when found are accounted great blessings ; so 
in th<^ slang of the river a true friend and honest 
man is calkd “a good man to tie to.” 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


178 

thorough training he had given the boy in 
practical seamanship was so well bestowed 
that he deserved a good rating. So that 
morning he made him speechlessly happy by 
presenting him with his own chronometer, 
and found a curious pleasure in thinking that 
when he went on the Black List there would 
be such a fine fellow to step in his shoes. 

The twins had their presents ready too, for 
they were now quite young ladies — being all 
of ten years old, — with their hair plaited in 
tight little pigtails, tied, one with a red cord 
and one with a blue (“to tell t’other from 
which,” their uncle said), and fully able to 
do many useful things about the house, and 
watch over their mother with that quaint 
fussiness and a great paddlmg to and fro that 
readily explained the name by which Jonas 
often called them — the Sand Pipers. And 
these presents they hid mysteriously behind 
their backs in one hand, until with the other 
they had given him sixteen smacks agreeably 
diversified with hair pulling and pinching 
“to make it even;” and of course Dick said 
there never were two better little sisters nor 
two better presents ; for Mary Ginerva had 
made him a large crab net and Ginerva Mary 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


179 


had made him a needle-book in the shape of 
a dropsical butterfly, with red flannel wings 
and a green pincushion body. And Idella 
had either understood something of what 
they had told her, or had caught the infection 
of good wishes ; for she had made a great 
cake, and came into breakfast dressed in the 
prettiest gown Jonas had given her, and with 
a bunch of red hollyhocks stuck in her white 
hair, and her great black eyes a shade less 
sad. It was such a very special day that 
everybody felt aggrieved at the abrupt end- 
ing of its pleasures. 

About 12 o’clock, just as a delicious mix- 
ture of smells began to come in to Dick from 
the kitchen (where he was not allowed to 
even look), a boy came running up from the 
station waving a yellow envelope. 

‘‘Ketch!” he yelled, and whirled it into 
the window. 

Dick saw it was addressed to his uncle, 
and knowing it must be something startling, 
for he had never had a telegram in all his 
experience, he snatched up his hat and hur- 
ried down town. 

On the coping of the quaint old church 
yard, where so many sailors are buried that 


l8o THE JOSE-MARIA. 

their brother sailors like to muster there, and 
smoke their pipes and spin their yarns, he 
found Jonas sitting with three or four cronies. 
But uncle and nephew were Yankees, and 
neither spoke nor looked surprised at the 
yellow envelope, which the former opened, 
deliberately read, and then quietly tucked 
away in his pocket in the midst of a slow 
cracking of ponderous jokes by his mates. 

“Plum duff ready, boy?” he asked. And 
when Dick nodded, he rose, brushed the 
ashes from his coat and started off with him. 

As they walked along, Jonas said : “Why 
don^t you ask ’bout this tely-gram? ” 

“None o’ my business, I guess, uncle.” 

“Right!” growled Jonas, with unqualified 
approval; “so I’ll tell you. What ’ud you 
say to givin’ up your day ashore and goin’ 
out to speak a ship? ” 

“ I’d say ‘yes.’ ” 

“Right again, by hookey 1 So I’ll tell you 
some more. ’Member bearin’ me talk ’bout 
Jack Hendershott?” 

“ The diver? ” 

Jonas nodded. 

“Yes, J/>,” said Dick, with some excite- 
ment. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


l8l 


Well, it’s him.” 

*'ls it from Californy? ” asked Dick. 

** No : right from New York.” 

He was theer. ” 

‘‘Yes, an’ I thought tell you give me this 
he was theer now. Read it.” 

And Dick read : 

“If you want to speak the Madison from N. Y., 
clear Lewes at 12. 

“J. Hendershott. ” 

. “Wonder what he’s up to now? The last 
I heerd of him he was off to raise the treasure 
of the Ci^y Pekin, She foundered with a 
half a million o’ gold in her, and a pretty lot 
o’ Indian diamonds an’ the mails, an’ a hull 
lot o’ passengers. It’s cur’ous, for I ain’t 
seen nothin’ o’ that job bein’ done, an’ Jack 
Hendershott’s no lubber to leave a bit o’ 
work ««done, particularly gilt-edged work 
like that. No : we ain’t. got time to go home. 
It’s hard on twelve now an’ the tide’ll serve.” 

“Aye, aye, sir!” said Dick. “Hi here. 
Stumpy ! here’s a penny ef you tell Mrs. Bar- 
low that me and the Cap’n have gone out.” 

“A’right!” sang out “Stumpy,” a short 
but fleet-footed youngster. 

And without another word he followed his 


i 82 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


uncle aboard, mechanically looking into the 
biscuit locker and water butt ; and, after the 
sails were set and the boat running free, took 
his place at the tiller in the silence Jonas 
loved so well. 



THE JOSE-MARIA. 


183 


VIII. 

A bout daybreak they heard the short 
quick throb of a steam-engine, and in 
due time the Madison was spoken, and Jonas 
w as aboard and steering her into the break- 
water. 

She was an old-fashioned side -wheel 
steamer, and for some reason had taken the 
pilot boat in tow. No sooner was her 
anchor let go than Jonas came aboard with a 
weather-beaten man, whom he called ‘‘Jack,” 
and treated in a way that proved him a 
special friend. 

He was about Dick’s height, but of the 
build peculiar to successful divers. He 
looked rather worn though, and his eyes were 
tired, and his face pallid as if from illness. 

As they came along side the landing he 
said : 

“Now, matey, ef you’ll tell me a decent 
place to hang my hammock. I’ll be — ” 

“Stow that, Jack Hendershott ! ” inter- 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


184 

rupted Jonas, gruffly. “Ef it’s come to that, 
after the cruises and bruises we’ve weathered 
together, it’s time to say good-bye. You’ll 
come to my house, or you’ll walk out o’ my 
’quaintance, once fur all.” 

‘‘Sho’ now, Jonas!” said Hendershott, 
evidently touched and gratified. “ I’ll be in 
the way of your wimmen kind.” 

“ Not by a jug-full,” was the answer. 

So Dick shouldered his bag and went 
ahead, securing a welcome from his mother 
in advance for the stranger, by telling her he 
was a sailor-man they had ^‘picked up out- 
side.” 

And she cooked a dinner that made the two 
men sniff appreciatively from the moment 
they enfered until it was served. In the 
midst of the meal, when the business of eat- 
ing slackened and that of conversation began, 
Jonas suddenly looked up and said : 

“By the way. Jack, what about the City o' 
Pekin ? ” 

Hendershott dropped his knife and fork, 
pushed back his chair with a hasty gesture, 
and, warding off the question with his hands, 
answered in great agitation: 

“Don’t never say that word agin, Judkins I 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 185 

Don’t never breathe it, — don’t look it even ! ” 

‘‘Didn’t you find nothin’?” began Jonas, 
in surprise. 

Find nothin^? It was what I did find that 
I’m a-tryin’ to forgit. In the name o’ God 
don’t raise the dead afore His time — right 
here on the edge o’ this new contrac’ too ! ” 

The last words were muttered as he wiped 
his forehead on quite one of the most start- 
ling “bandanas” the Presidential Campaign 
had evoked. 

“ ’Course I won’t,” said Jonas. And then 
with ready tact he began to ask about the 
Madison^ and her crew and outfit, till Hender- 
shott had entirely rallied from his mysterious 
horror of the City of Pekin. 

All the rest of the day the two men were 
closeted together, and after nightfall they 
went off to the house of one McPherson, a 
pilot grandson of the pilot grandfather who 
had saved the troop-ships that famous night, 
when the Henlopen Light for the first and 
only time was put out by the British in the 
vain hope of crippling our little Continental 
Army. 

And after that the three heads were so 
often in council, and there was such secrecy 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


1 86 

maintained aboard of the Madison^ that the 
sharp wits of the summer visitors, the natives 
and the local reporters soon dug out the fact 
that there was a plan afoot to locate and raise 
the treasure of the Jos^-Maria, a Spanish gal- 
leon that had gone down in a Norway squall 
in the Old Kiln Roads more than a hundred 
years before, with her prize crew of English- 
men on board and two hundred Spanish 
prisoners chained between her decks. 

The Northern and Western papers took it 
up, and at first fairly sparkled with barbed 
jests, and the diver and his friends were 
made the butts of much ridicule. But pres- 
ently it became known that the Madison 
belonged to a responsible company ; that a 
Charter for the work had been granted by the 
United States Treasury, which had such con- 
fidence in the enterprise that it bargained for 
the receipt of the brass armament of the 
wreck and a percentage of the treasure ; that 
McPherson had the charts left by his grand- 
father, which located the exact position of the 
wreck ; that the company had had its agents 
abroad for two years hunting in the Admi- 
ralty Office at London and the State Archives 
at Madrid for the proper identification of the 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


187 

vessel ; that they had the very list of the 
gems, the bars of silver and gold, the money, 
and even the rolls of silks and brocades that 
lay in her hold and lockers, for the Captain 
of the prize had mailed them at Lewes a few 
hours before he sailed out to his death. And 
later, when the doubters still clung to their 
disbelief, McPherson admitted to a New 
York Herald reporter that his grandfather 
was aboard the Josi-Maria steering her out 
when the squall struck her, and that he and 
thirteen Spanish prisoners, who were on deck 
taking the air at the time, were washed 
ashore clinging to gratings, oars — anything 
they could lay hands to ; and if they didn’t 
believe there was such a ship, why they 
needn’t. But, there was her English Cap- 
tain’s monument set up by that Captain’s 
“relict” — as the stone calls the v/idow — six 
months after they had sent her word the body 
had come ashore out of the wreck, and been 
buried in the queer old churchyard named 
above, — that churchyard where the graves 
heave up like a chop-sea, and the head-stones 
set askew, as if “the watch below” were stir- 
ring in their narrow berths, dreaming of the 
call of “God’s bos’n — St. Gabriel.” 


i88 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


Then the whole town caught the infection 
— the very children in the streets talked 
about it ; the tone of the press changed, and 
not a week passed that some big journal did 
not send its special artist and special corres- 
pondent ; the Vigo Bay Expedition was cited 
in support of the expectations entertained of 
this one, until every ship must have been 
passed in review. Hendershott was sketched 
in armor and out of armor, on shore and off 
shore, under the water, and in mid-air diving 
in the scanty attire of an Indian pearl 
seeker ; the Madison was represented as a 
side-wheeler, a screw-propeller, a frigate, a 
wrecking tug, — anything the facile pencil of 
the “special” chose to make it; and one 
reporter, more enterprising than the rest, 
published a tabulated statement, with an affi- 
davit attached — secured from New York’s 
great jeweller, — of the gradual rise in the 
value of rubies during the last hundred years, 
and the consequent enormous increase in the 
value of the sunken cargo, which included 
hundreds of these precious stones. 

Hendershott’s contract gave him twenty 
thousand dollars the day the treasure was 
recovered, and his wages were enormous com- 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


189 

pared to the length of his hours ; for he only- 
worked at slack-water (making two descents 
a day), and he was the object of open envy 
and congratulation among the longshoremen, 
fishermen, and sailors. But he did not seem 
to appreciate his luck ; indeed he shrank 
visibly from the work, and got paler and 
more “peaked” every day. 

At last he came to Jonas one morning and 
said : 

“Old man, it ain’t no use to kick agin this 
any more. I got to give it up. Look thar. ” 

And he held out his hand that was tremb- 
ling as if he had a chill. 

“No, it ain’t drinkin’ ; I’ve quit that since 
I took to divin’” — this in answer to Jonas* 
quick look. “I’m a-goin’ to make a clean 
breast of it, tell the comp’ny, an’ then git. 
It’s all along o’ that City o' Pekin.^' And he 
groaned. “I wanted some money bad ; fur 
my Kit, she was a-goin’ to be spliced (mar- 
ried) to as smart a sailor as ever stepped, 
and I wanted to give her a good send-off ; an’ 
Jack junior, he got a offer of a berth as first- 
mate, but a big bonus was wanted, an’ so I 
jumped at the job of the City o' Pekin^ fur I 
knew it ’ud pay. It was easy work, fur she’d 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


190 

settled on an even keel. Pretty deep? Yes; 
but my lungs always hev been out o’ common 
strong, an’ it wasn’t more’n child’s play 
a-locatin’ of her cargo. I broached her 
amidships an’ things come tumblin’ out 
lively. Fust I got at her mail-bags an’ the 
bullion ; an’ then the orders come to go to 
the purser’s safe and the passengers’ cabins, 
an’ git out the jewels an’ sea trunks, an’ sich. 
ArC I went 

“Well?” said Jonas. 

“Well,” continued Hendershott, drawing 
a deep breath and mopping his damp face : 
“ I never mistrusted nothin wuss’n bones, fur 
she’d ben down six months, an’ fishes is hun- 
gry customers and clean pickers ; so I 
tramped down the gangway, an’ theer, at the 
fust door — swayin’ up an’ down in the stir of 
my movin’, just like it was a-sayin’ ‘how-de- 
do ! ’ — was the awfullest thing I ever sighted, 
man or boy, in any sea I hev sailed a-top of 
or dove beneath of. It hed been a young 
man, but it was swelled tell it was like 
nothin’ words kin tell, an’ the face was set in 
a look so — so — so hidjus I can’t git it out o’ 
my head sleepin’ or wakin’; an’ when I git 
down below in the divin’ out yander I don’t 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


I9I 

darst to turn the eyes in my helmet fur fear 
o’ seein’ him a-bobbin’ and a-bouncin’ at my 
back, an’ I hev to keep a-movin’; fur I feel as 
ef he was a-goin’ to grip me from behind ev’y 
minute.” * 

<‘Jack Hendershott, that’s a tough yarn 
you’re a-spinnin’. How could a man look 
any way and he six months drownded, with 
the fishes a-polishin’ the blubber off his 
bones? ” 

‘‘Thar warn’t a bite or a scratch on him — 
an’ the fok’sle a-scramble wi’ crabs too. 
Thet look o’ his’n hed tarryfied ’em off, an’ 
he was kep’ thar by his foot bein’ jammed. 
The gratin’ hed slipped an’ then sprung back, 
ketchin’ him in a trap he didn’t have no time 
to git loose fum. Somethin’ like a grip-sack 
was at his feet, thet’s the reason I know ’bout 
his bein’ caught thar. I made one grab at it 
fur the comp’ny’s sake, an’ then I signalled 
‘up,’ an’ left fur home thet night. Thet’s 
the yarn. You kin chaw on it, an’ spit out 
what you don’t want when you’re done, but 
thar ain’t no more divin’ fur Jack Hender- 
shott, thet’s flat r' 

And he meant it. 

* This was the real experience of a diver. 


192 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


IX. 


I T SEEMED to Jonas like a criminal waste 
of opportunity and money, and he was as 
glad as his aching bones would let him be 
when the afternoon brought up an easterly 
gale, that blew so hard for three days and 
left the sea so rough for another, that work 
was suspended on the wreck ; for he thought, 
“Ef you give Jack time, he’ll git out o’ th’ 
Doldrums* an’ sail free.” 

But he didn’t ; and before the end of the 
week something happened that drove every- 
thing out of the honest skipper’s head except 
his own great trouble and the iniquity of that 
machine a sailor hates worse than a typhoon 
— the Law. 

He was sitting smoking his pipe, and won- 
dering if he could venture to broach the sub- 

* A part of the ocean near the equator abounding 
in squalls, sudden calms, and light baffling winds 
that keep a ship tossing within a limited stretch for 
weeks a time. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


193 


ject last discussed to Hendershott ; for the 
diver had not yet written to the President of 
the Company, and the announcement in the 
local paper that Doctor De Puy and the 
Board of Directors would be down the next 
day but one made it possible he might wait 
for that opportunity to tender his resignation. 
He had about come to the conclusion he 
would keep still, “Jack bein’ suthin’ like a 
sperm-whale wi’ a harpoon in his innards jest 
now” — i. e., not only suffering but “sound- 
ing,” — when a smooth voice at his elbow 
said : 

“Captain Judkins, I believe?” 

“An’ suppose I be?” 

“May I have a few moments’ conversation 
with you, sir? ” 

“Take a cheer,” said Jonas. 

“Out here!” (in some surprise.) “My 
business is very private, and as it has to do 
with your affairs I do not imagine you care to 
discuss it on the front porch in the hearing of 
your neighbors.” 

“I don’t guess my affairs kin trouble any 
man much, fur I don’t tell ’em ’round ; an’ ez 
fur my neighbors, I ain’t done nothin’ Pm 
’shamed fur ’m to hear,” answered Jonas, 


194 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


gruffly ; for he had taken an instantaneous 
and violent dislike to the slender, supple 
youth who stood before him^ with his beady 
black eyes half closed, a false ring in his care- 
ful voice, and a disagreeable half smile on 
his thick lips. 

“ ‘The heart knoweth its own bitterness,”’ 
he quoted flippantly; “and I’m not disputing 
it, but I think you’ll be sorry all the same 
when I’m through that you didn’t come in.” 

“As fur thet,” said Jonas, “ I can’t say till 
I hear the sort o’ yarn you’re a-goin’ to spin.” 

Just then Idella appeared at the doorway, 
and, after looking fixedly at the young man 
for a few minutes, she said, quite as distinctly 
as if she had intended to speak aloud : 

“He’s a snake. I’ll tell Dick to git the 
meat axe an’ chop him in two.” 

“Come into the house,” said Jonas, 
abruptly; “my sister ain’t well, an’ you fret 
her.” 

“Ain’t well!” muttered his visitor, skip- 
ping in ahead of him with the agility of a flea. 
“I should smile! She’s as crazy as a June 
bug.” 

About an hour later Dick came in and 
heard high words behind the still closed door ; 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


195 


then it was flung open, and Jonas was standing 
erect, his face red with anger, his voice harsh. 

‘‘I don’t, don’t I? What you a-talkin’ 
about. Why, I bought an’ paid fur ev’y foot 
o’ it, an’ fur ev’y beam an’ j’ist in it, wi’ gold 
an’ silver dollars thet was tried out o’ the 
whales we caught in the South Seas the last 
four cruises of the Josiah Wilkins^ an’ thet we 
squeezed out o’ the tea tradin’ we done in 
China waters ! Title ain’t good? Why, man 
alive ! I’ve got my papers slick ez a whistle, 
ef thet’s what you’re a-jawin’ ’bout ; an’ 
they’re recorded an’ signed, sealed an’ deliv- 
ered this ten years. ” 

‘‘That may all be,*’ said the oily youth; 
“but the title is not good, and my clients 
demand possession. The house of course,” 
he added in an off-hand way, “will go with 
the land, as compensation for the unauthor- 
ized occupation of it through all these years.” 

“What?” growled Jonas. “Turn me off 
my own land, an’ take the house over my 
head? By gum, you won’t ! nor nobody else 
neither ! ” 

“ It isn't your land ! ” 

“It is !” shouted Jonas, advancing. 

“Captain Judkins, if you lay one of your 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


196 

fingers on me I’ll have you up for assault and 
battery!” (he had got behind a table.) 
“You are helpless in this matter; you can’t 
raise hand or foot. The law is on our side. 
But I tell you what I will do. If you will 
give me your note of hand drawn at thirty 
days in favor of my clients for $3,000 (three 
thousand) cash, they’ll give up their claim. 
If you can’t or won’t, they’ll demand possess- 
ion in sixty days. Come, what do you say? 
I call that a liberal offer, and one that lets 
you down mighty easy ; for my expenses and 
commission — for I’ll be your lawyer, too, for 
a consideration — will be all you need pay. 
What did you say? ” 

<Git!” said Jonas. “An’ ef you ever 
come within range o’ my fists agin. I’ll riddle 
you like a collander 1 ” 

“Oh, threats!” said the little man. 
“They break no bones, but you have to pay 
dear for them. Thank Heaven, there is a 
law protecting honest men ! ” 

“ It won’t help you none then ! ” said Jonas. 
“Oh, insults! Better still. If you are 
not plucked to the last feather, my friend, it 
certainly won’t be the fault of yours truly.” 
And with a sweeping bow he left the room. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


197 


‘^Did you hear that land shark, Dick? ” 

** Yes sir. What’s he drivin’ at? ” 

“I dunno. He come here tellin’ me I 
don’t own the land I bought, an’ don’t own 
the house I built ; an’ he showed me a lot o’ 
papers an’ read out of ’em an’ talked over ’em 
tell my head buzzed like a log-reel when the 
ship’s a-makin’ ten knots an hour. An’ he 
said his clients ’ud take $3,000 or the house, 
— ez ef dollars growed on trees, an’ had on’y 
to be shook down, or ez ef I was a-givin’ 
away houses ! He’s a fool — no he ain’t, he’s 
a knave, an’ thinks I’m the fool ! But I 
ain’t; so I’m goin’ over to Rehoboth on the 
evenin’ train, an’ ask Judge Comegys about 
it. Then ef he says I’m right — an’ I know 
he’s a-goio’ to, — I’ll give that rascal a sock- 
dolager that’ll last him tell the undertaker 
gits his measure.” 

But, alas ! Judge Comegys did not say he 
was right ; there was a flaw in the title, — a 
small matter that could easily have been 
adjusted by an honest or a kindly disposed 
person, but d/d offer an opening for the law- 
suit Mr. Dixson insisted on in default of the 
$3,000 he demanded. And Mr. Burton and 
Mik Rodney, the two best lawyers in the 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


198 

town, told him rather than drag through a 
suit he had better give up the property 
quietly ; h^ could move the house off, but 
that had better be thrown in ; 'that of course 
Dixson had no right to his expenses from 
him, nor a commission, nor would they per- 
mit him to be bothered on the charge of 

threatening and insulting language,” but 
while much the fellow said was “buncombe” 
(empty boasting), they considered ^3,000 a 
really fair estimate of the value of the prop- 
erty; that it was a hard case, but Dixson had 
him “hip and thigh” ; and then each of them 
offered his services free of cost, and the 
whole town gave a warm, vehement sym- 
pathy that was balm to the angry, sore old 
heart. 

At the close of the third day of advising 
and suffering Jonas stood at the manterpiece, 
gloomily staring into the empty fireplace ; 
his pipe lay neglected, his tobacco-plug 
untouched. Dick sat in the shadow of the 
room, weighed down by his own helplessness 
and his deep sympathy. Mary Ginevra and 
Ginevra Mary were clearing away the neg- 
lected supper, and Idella swung contentedly 
in a rocking-chair singing to herself, uncon- 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


199 


scious of the trouble around her ; but she 
sang again and again with a sweet, plaintive 
insistence, 

“Wait till the clouds roll by.” 

Suddenly Jonas started around, crying 
angrily, <‘Who struck me?” 

Then he reeled and fell, his left side 
blasted with paralysis. 

‘‘Run for Doctor Burton, Ginnie ! ” 
shouted Dick, as he caught his uncle in his 
arms and eased him down ; and Mollie, not 
waiting for instructions, got a pillow and 
tugged at his sea-boots with such a good-will 
that they came off (upsetting her“each time 
by the suddenness of it, by the way), and set 
to work rubbing his feet, as she had once 
seen Dick rub a sailor-man who was picked 
up half drowned in the Bay. 

Doctor Burton gave them no hope of his 
recovery from the stroke ; he said he might 
live many years in moderate comfort, but 
would be of course a helpless cripple ; and he 
left them with a promise to come in again, 
and the assurance that as long as their 
trouble lasted he would do his best to 
lighten it. 

This last “went without saying;” for 


200 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


whenever death or danger or sorrow comes 
into that end of Delaware, Hiram Burton is 
one of the first to step out and lead the 
rescue, — whether it is to take an oar and pull 
through a raging sea to a wreck, or to take 
his life in his hand and visit the ships that 
come into port reeking with yellow fever, or 
to spend his brain keeping up with the 
advance of the profession fojr the sake of his 
patients, gentle and simple, or to empty his 
purse relieving his distress. There he stands, 
gigantic of figure and big of heart, — a worthy 
kinsman of the Caesar Rodney whose ride 
was as famous and as vital in its results as 
that of Paul Revere. 

And as Jonas lay breathing slowly and 
heavily the evening train rolled in, bearing 
Doctor De Puy and the Directors of the 
Treasure-Saving Company, on whom Hen- 
dershott was waiting in ignorance of his 
friend’s illness ; and the black shadow lay 
over the house, and the future held no out- 
look for the anxious boy, whose brain ran 
riot with desperate plans and fruitless con- 
triving for and agakist the evil days that 
were rushing so swiftly on the helpless 
family, whose protector he had again become. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


201 


The night wore on, but still the burning 
young eyes saw no rift. Toward daybreak 
the walls seemed to melt away, the sea 
stretched before him, the Dune behind him ; 
the swelling noise of the breakers raved 
about him, undertoned by the deep moaning 
of the shattered waves as they rushed back 
to begin again their charge on the sands. 
Once more the old childish nightmare 
oppresed him — he was the light-house tower, 
and the sand-breakers curved about him, and 
the writhing coils of the Dune were tighten- 
ing and tightening on him. His breath came 
in deep gasps ; escape seemed impossible. 
Then a sweet face floated before him — it was 
the ‘‘Sand-Pipers’ ” Lady, and her eyes were 
fixed seaward. Following their gaze he saw 
a ship struggling in from the open, her fore- 
topmast snapped, its sails bursting away like 
puffs of white smoke, while the loosened yards 
hammered ominously at the stump, and the 
stays jerked frantically. Lashed in the 
shrouds was a man whose hair and beard 
streamed away in the storm. Under the 
bows of the flying wreck the sea churned and 
frothed, and the shoals were close at hand. 

' “Cut loose, daddy, and swim for it !” he 


202 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


cried desperately ; for it was his father’s face, 
with the shrewd kind eyes, and the long 
beard in which he had tangled his baby 
fingers “ to play big horse ” so often. 

Then he woke, and the quiet Sunday morn- 
ing was rising out of the sea, with the bene- 
diction of God for a tir«d world that ‘^rested 
on the seventh day ” in its calm. 



THE JOSE-MARIA. 


203 


X. 

H ENDERSHOTT’S grief was deep when 
he got back to the house as the church 
bells were ringing, and found what a dreadful 
guest had come in during his absence. 

At the account of the lawyer^s visit his 
anger was too deep for words at first, but 
slowly expressed itself during the day in dis- 
jointed sentences, jerked out between clouds 
of tobacco smoke. About seven o’clock they 
culminated in: “ Broached-to ! As fine a 
sailor as ever stepped ; an’ by a land shark, 
drat him!” Then: <‘Jack junior kin jest 
wait for thet air berth a while longer an’ Kit 
kin go ’thout her gewgaws. ’Tain’t the rank 
as makes the man, nor the riggin’ as makes 
the gal.” Then: “Them dead men’s a 
awful big dose, and thet there City o' Pekin 
gives me the wust kind o’ a turn to rickollect, 
but ef it lands me in Davy’s own I’m a-goin’ 
to keep on a-divin’ for the Hosy-Mari's money- 
chists whether they’re thar or not ; an’ mebbe 


204 JOSE-MARIA. 

the pay I’m a-gittin’ fum the Comp’ny’ll stave 
off that there hog-fish tell suthin’ else kin 
be done, an’ thar’s my pipe on’t ! ” 

And he solemnly laid his pipe on the table, 
and smashed it by a blow of his open hand, 
and next morning went to his diving as usual. 

The whole party — president, directors, 
journalists, invited guests and diver, — came 
back highly excited Monday evening. The 
pumps had brought up a piece of something 
about the length of a man’s forearm. It had 
been cleansed, and, after being submitted fo 
the microscope, it was declared to be teak- 
wood. 

Now, as the Jose-Maria was entered on the 
shipping lists of the Admiralty as “built of 
teak-wood,” this was accepted by the most 
incredulous as an indisputable proof that the 
wreck located was indeed the one sough^t ; 
and Hendershott dreamed uneasy exultant 
dreams all that night of pounding Dixson’s 
head with a bar of solid silver, while a row of 
dead Spaniards grinned at him through the 
port-holes of the wreck; and a dreadful, 
shapeless something wavered up and down 
and back and forth in the marsh, like a Will- 
o’-the Wisp whose light had gone out. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


205 


A few days later the grapples caught in 
some obstruction that would not give ; but 
before the second turn of the tide a squall 
came roaring down the Bay, and, after hold- 
ing for twenty minutes or so, they fetched 
loose, and when they were hauled up were 
found to be straightened out and covered 
with verdigris. 

This made a pretty bustle, I can assure 
you ! And the blacksmith’s shop, where 
they were taken after being scraped and 
washed, was ringed-in ten deep with the 
tarry sailors, rugged pilots, and ragged small 
fry, to say nothing of an interested group of 
the Madison's officers, and several of the pro- 
fessional men and county gentlemen, who 
watched attentively as the great bellows 
groaned and puffed, the sparks flew wide, and 
the short, swarthy smith, with his leather 
apron, counted the seconds while the irons 
lay in the heart of the flame. 

A young chemist, who was at the Break- 
water for the fishing, joined them just as the 
grapples were lifted out. He gave one look, 
then said : 

‘‘Galvanized with copper, by Jove !” 

Then there was a hand-shaking among the 


2o6 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


officers, and a quiet explaining to the unin- 
itiated that the presence of the verdigris on 
the irons meant they had gripped either cop- 
per or brass, and as the Jose-Maria was the 
only ship sunk in that part of the bay that 
had both in her hull (she carried brass guns 
and was coppered to her bends), it meant 
that the lost galleon would soon yield up her 
thousands and tens and hundreds of thou- 
sands of treasure. 

But the days came and went, and still the 
blue clay obstinately held its secret, and the 
time drew nearer and nearer for the giving 
up of the house and land. Mr. Rodney had 
told Jonas that several of their mutual friends 
had determined to advance the money to 
clear the property, giving him as long time 
as he wanted to return it ; but, while the old 
sailor’s face twitched with emotion, he said: 

“No: I’m obleeged. But a debt’s a debt 
any way you fix it. It’s a rock as’ll bilge the 
stoutest o’ ships. It’s always right thar in 
her ribs, an’ shiftin’ the ballast ain’t stoppin’ 
the leak. Let the shark have it when the 
time comes, an’ Dick’ll manage somehow fur 
Idella an’ me an’ the Sand-Pipers.” 

These latter insisted on going into the 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


207 


cabin to live, and sometimes Dick was half 
disposed to try it; but Jonas held his old hor- 
ror of the Dune, and told Dick ‘‘when the 
time came ” he would tell him what to do. 

Meantime Ginevra Mary had begun a siege 
of Our Lady that was as unique as it was 
fervent ; for it was a strange compound of 
begging, scolding, and remonstrating. 

“ See here, my Lady ! ” she said one day, 
“please to stop thinkin’ ’bout heaven, an’ 
listen to me for a minute ! We got to have 
somethin’ done, an’ done spry, we reely have f 
The Lord was raisin’ dead folks an’ curin’ 
cripples when He was livin’ in J’rusal’m, so 
don't you think He’d fetch daddy an’ put 
uncle Judkins on his legs agin, an’ kill that 
man — no, I guess He wouldn’t do that (I for- 
got He loved everybody, an’ we got to, too), 
but scare him, — scare him awful, so he’ll run 
away and never come back?” 

And every day found her looking up at the 
sky, her eyes screwed close, her nose drawn 
to a button, and her anxiety dropping from 
her lips in some such phrase as this • 

“Be you a-goin’ to do it to-day, I wonder? 
My ! I wish you weren’t so fur off ! Maybe 


2o8 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


ef I could pull your gown you’d turn roun\ 
an’ listen tight'’’ (earnestly). 

God bless her ! She didn’t know she was 
pulling her gown, and plucking at her heart- 
strings as well, by her innocent confidence. 

But still the sun shone and the waters 
danced, and nothing happened till the last 
day but one of the Madison's stay. Yes, in 
spite of the bit of teak and the verdigris, 
there was some quarrel about the amount of 
money assessed for coal bills, and some dis- 
agreement between the members of the Board 
as to whether dredging was not surer than 
diving. The dredges could be worked two- 
and-twenty hours, and the contents of every 
scoop run through a screen in full sight ; 
while diving could be done only two hours a 
day and then the currents might wash away 
valuable ‘‘proofs” from the diver’s very 
hands. And the upshot of it all was that the 
work was to be suspended till the following 
spring. 

That evening Hendershot came home look- 
ing ill. He would eat nothing, and sat out- 
side the door with his head clasped in his 
hands, shuddering now and then uncontroll- 
ably, and groaning softly to himself. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


2 og 


Dick found him in this condition, and, 
after silently mixing him a glass of stiff grog 
and filling his pipe, he sat down by him wait- 
ing developments. But as none came he 
jogged his memory. 

‘‘Have a pipe, Cap’n, an’ some grog?” 

Hendershott shook his head dismally. 

“Feel bad anywheer, sir?” 

“ I feel wuss’n ef chagres and choleray was 
a-pullin’ caps fur me.” 

‘Can I git the doctor? ” (anxiously.) 

“No: it’s suthin’ I seen to-day, Dick.” 
Then he broke out fiercely : 

“I won’t, I darsn't go down to-morrow! 
Here I’ve kep’ myself under thinkin’ I was 
a-servin’ my old messmate, Jonas Judkins A. 
B., — a-layin’ in his bed by the will o’ the 
Lord and through thet limb o’ the law’s inter- 
ferin’. But to-day I seen thet as makes it 
/w^possible to go over the side agin as long as 
I breathe — which with these here lungs o’ 
mine’ll be many a year — so help me 1 An’ 
now suppose the Comp’ny holds back my 
pay for breach o’ contrac’ — they kin do it 1 
— how’s the ^i,8oo due me a-goin’ to help 
Jonas Judkins ef it ain’t paid to me?” 

This was the first mention he’d made of his 


210 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


intention, his motto being, “Don’t count 
your barrels till the whale’s in tow” ; so Dick 
did not quite understand, but he asked : 

“What did you see, Cap’n?” 

“It was off that cussed wreck. I was 
a-movin’ the pipes o’ the pumps to whar a 
hole had begun to make in the clay when I 
looked up — I dunno what made me neither, 
— an’ thar, not twenty foot off, an’ not more’n 
ten foot over my head, was two sharks 
a-playin’ ball wi’ a dead man.” 

“Land, Cap’n ! What you sayin’?” 

“ I’ll take my davy. They was a-nosin’ an’ 
a-tumblin’ of him, like you boys do of a foot- 
ball, an’ his legs an’ arms was a-whirlin’ like 
he was a-fightin’ ’em off. It turned me so 
sick I stepped back’ards an’ got onto that 
hole, an’ the suck o’ the pump caught my 
foot an’ most pulled it off. I wish’t I’d a-ben 
’prenticed to a farmer, or a coal mine, or any- 
thing that ’ud a-kep’ me from livin’ this sort 
o’ way!” he went on passionately. “An’ 
now, wi’ all I’ve done an’ suffered, here I’ve 
got to lose my money 1 ” 

“Cap’n,” began Dick, softly; “Cap’n?” 

“Well?” 

“What do you have to do to-morrow? ” 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


2II 


“Nothin’ but put on the armor an’ go 
down fur a lot o’ gappin’ fools, ’at want to 
see a diver a-divin’, drat ’em ! ” 

“ Is that all? ” 

“All ! It’s more’n enough when you have 
th’ extensive acquaintance wi’ corpses that 
I’ve got.” 

“I know,” interrupted Dick, somewhat 
hurriedly; “but what I was a-goin’ to say was 
why couldn’t I go in your place? ” 

“By the horn spoon, you’re a good un !” 
cried Hendershott. “ Do you mean it? ” 

“’Course I do,” said Dick. “I ain’t a 
mole or a — a — porpuss, an’ I’ve seen all 
you’ve been doin’ for uncle on the sly, an’ 
just heard this here last — but it ain’t no use, 
he wouldn’t take it ; an’ ef I can slip down 
’stead o’ you, why. I’m your man twice over ! 
How’ll we manage? ” 

“You leave that to me,” answered Hender- 
shott, who looked and moved and spoke like 
a new man ; “ I’ll fix that. You know thar’s 
the risk o’ the pressure, Dick,” he said, 
anxiously. 

“All right,” answered Dick, his steady 
eyes smiling; “my bargain’s like the ‘per- 


212 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


ish’ble merchandise ’ notice at the deppo — 
‘held at the owner’s risk.’ Don’t fret your 
head, Cap’n Hendershott ; I guess a little 
blood won’t count much ’side o’ what you 
been doin’ for our folks.” 



THE JOSE-MARIA. 


213 


XL 

T he next morning broke clear and crisp. 

The little rollers chased each other in 
shore, and the waters shifted in as many 
colors as the sides of a dying, dolphin. 

Dick made his uncle as comfortable as he 
knew how, gave his mother a big bear-pat on 
her shoulder as she sat in her favorite rock- 
ing-chair ; and then, after genially pulling 
Ginevra Mary’s pigtail plait, and pinching 
Mary Ginevra’s fat cheek, followed Hender- 
shott down to the shore, where the Madison's 
boat waited for them. 

His veins tingled with excitement of the 
coming experience, and with a certain degree 
of nervousness, which, while far removed 
from fear, was nevertheless shiver some. He 
felt curious to know how it was to be man- 
aged, but his uncle had taught him a saying : 

Never reel out your line tell thar’s a use fur 
it. Ef you do it’ll tangle an’ muss up. An’ 
thet’s the way wi’ words. Thar ain’t much 


214 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


hurt done’s long’s they’re stowed, but they 
bain’t easy to pick up an’ coil down agin.” 

So he kept his questions ‘stowed,” and 
(as always happens to those who know when 
to wait) he soon found out. 

The Madison's deck was alive with visitors, 
and among them fluttered the fantastic and 
pretty yachting suits of several ladies, whose 
light chatter met with enthusiastic response 
from the officers and civilians who danced 
attendance. One dakity girl about eighteen 
was evidently the Queen of Hearts; for what- 
ever she ordered was done — and she ordered 
everything she could think of, and everybody 
within reach. 

As Hendershott came over the side she 
walked toward him, calling back, with a 
saucy look, to the midshipman, who had just 
been fraying his tongue for her benefit : 

“I’m going to see now if you know what 
you’ve been talking about. I’ve heard of 
sailors’ yarns before, and I know they are not 
made of taxable wool either, so you are not 
restricted in their manufacture.” (Her father 
was an M. C., whose hobby was Free Wool.) 
Then: “Captain Hendershott, please tell 
me everything you know about diving, and 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 215 

all the names of the harness — I mean armor 
— and how you feel under water, and what 
you see, and all about it. Begin ! ” 

And she folded her arms, and leaned 
against the taffrail expectantly. 

“Yes’m,” said Hendershott, with a grin. 
But as he did not add anything else, she 
began to question him in detail, and was soon 
deeply interested. Presently she said : 

“How shall I know what you are doing 
down there? ” 

“Well’m, you won’t,” was the answer. 
“But you kin guess whar I be by th’ air 
bubbles risin’; an’ when I’m through I jerk 
the signal-cord an’ up I come.” 

“ Pshaw ! Is that all? ” 

“Yes’m. Onless” — and he paused impres- 
sively 

“Unless what?” she asked. “I knew 
you’d think of something.” 

“Ef you’d really like to foller it ’long,” he 
said slowly, “I might send my’sistant down; 
an’ then I could stay up myself, an’ tell you 
’bout it wi’ a chart of his movin’s round. 
But that’s the Cap’n’s say-so.” 

“That will be the very thing ! ” she cried, 
clapping her hands. “Captain” — this to the 


2i6 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


Madison's commander, — “oh, Captain! you 
said I might do just as I pleased, didn’t 
you?” 

“Of course. Miss Edyth,” answered that 
gentleman, with his hand on his heart and his 
admiration in his eyes. “My ship and I are 
at your service.” 

“Then I can send the young diver down, 
and keep Captain Hendershott up to tell me 
all about it, can’t I?” 

The gallant sailor’s expression changed 
slightly at this literal interpretation of his 
pretty speech ; but his word, though rashly 
given, was pledged, and all he said was : 

“If Hendershott says it can be done, it 
shall ; for Hendershott is the biggest man of 
us all.” 

A look accompanied this, which, however, 
Hendershott ignored altogether, and cheer- 
fully sang out : 

O’ course it can be done, sir 1 An’ ef Miss 
here’ll step nearer I’ll name th’ belts an’ 
weights as he’s a-puttin’ of ’em on.” 

Which he did, with a fluency that entirely 
hid Dick’s awkwardness of movement. Then 
— still explaining — he helped him down the 
ladder and into the water without hitch or 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


217 


accident, and, returning, began an elaborate 
description of the bottom of the Bay, the lay 
of the wreck, the legends told of her, the 
efforts made by an English frigate and a 74 
line-of-battle to raise her two years after she 
was sunk, etc., etc.; his tongue wagging with 
such rude eloquence that the group of visitors 
were delighted, and the officers thoroughly 
puzzled as to what could have set the old fel- 
low off on such a new tack ; for they had 
always found him reticent, and hard to 
“tap.” 

As the waters closed over Dick and he 
sank in their icy depths, his very heart 
seemed to congeal, and the blood surged and 
beat in his head so violently as to fill his vis- 
ion with broad zones and flashes of crimson 
light, and his ears with a sound like the drone 
of a wheel. But he clenched his teeth, and 
steadied himself by the thought of all that 
was staked on his venture ; and when he 
brought up against the bottom he deter- 
minedly opened his eyes, and looked about 
him through the windows of his queer icon 
prison. 

Around him reached a half obscurity that 
was like a twilight, only there was incessant 


2i8 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


motion throughout its extent. Deep-sea fish 
of familiar shape, but enlarged and distorted 
by refraction, floated by singly or rushed 
above him in shoals of varying size, pursuing 
or pursued. Blue fish chased “bunkers,” 
only to vanish in turn before their proper foe ; 
“sheep’s-head” browsed among the mussels, 
grinding them in their triple bank of teeth ; 
a sword-fish spitted a porpoise ; while far up 
a shadow took the form of a shark, — perhaps 
one of those Hendershott had seen “worry- 
ing ” the dead man. 

Death, death everywhere, and a silence so 
profound and so mysterious to one accus- 
tomed to God’s wide sky and broad open sea 
that, in spite of his courage, Dick’s spine 
prickled, and his scalp seemed to creep under 
his helmet. 

A sense of panic came over him, and he 
took himself severely in hand : 

“What’s thirty minutes ! Didn’t the Cap’n 
say, < jus’ long ’nough to show the folks how 
it’s done? ’ Dick Barlow, just s’pose you 
was a castaway on a desert island, an’ know’d 
you’d have to wait a handful o’ years to be 
picked up and took home? Thaw'd be some- 
thin’. Or s’pose you was a-floatin’ on a spar 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


219 


in mid-ocean, and never a sail in sight? 
That'd. be somethin’ too. Or you was adrift 
on a iceberg, same as old Tyson that time, 
wi’ th’ North wind a-blowin’ a gale? Why, 
man alive ! aside o’ those s’posin’s, this here’s 
a summer picnic, wi’ a brass band, an’ free 
ice-cream throwed in ! I’m shamed o’ you, I 
cert’n’y am ! Now, let’s do another kind o’ 
s’posin’. As long’s you’r’ down here, s’pose 
you take a look at the Hosy-Mari^ an’ s’pose 
you — Hello ! them theer pipes have washed 
off o’ the wreck, an’ the pumps ain’t suckin’ 
up nothin’ but water. I must fix that.” 

And he scrambled up on the long mound 
of clay that cased the hull of the wreck, 
caught the pipes that were hanging over the 
side, and was putting them down where he 
stood, when suddenly he remembered what 
Hendershott had said about a hgle that was 
making. 

This he looked for and found readily, for it 
was very “sizable.” Then he set the pipes 
over it, holding them near together, and 
steadying them with his hands ; forgetting the 
enormous power of the pumps above him, 
and that they were gathering “way” with 
every stroke of the piston, until an unguarded 


220 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


movement on the “scoop-out’s” slippery 
edge made him lose his balance, and in a trice 
he was on his back in it, with one of his feet 
drawn, twisted, held immovably, and a sen- 
sation of cracking muscles and bending 
bones. 

Like Hendershott, he too was caught in 
the “suck” ! He turned as nearly over as he 
could, and, digging his fingers into the clay, 
made desperate efforts to break loose. He 
drew up his free knee, and bore away on it 
again and again, but it slipped from him 
every time. He tried with one hand to shift 
the weights toward his imprisoned foot to 
bear it down, but they were immovable. He 
struggled and kicked with all the force of his 
tense young muscles, when to his horror he 
felt a giving-way under him, and he sank into 
the hold oi the old wreck. 

The last thing he remembered was grasping 
frantically at whatever he could reach to stay 
his descent, touching something that stirred 
in his grip, and then giving a cry that thun- 
dered back in his ears from the walls of his 
helmet ; for he thought it must be a bone — 
maybe the hand — of one of those dead Span- 
iards who had gone down to their death like 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


221 


rats in a trap, and whose skeletons still hung 
in chains ’tween decks ! 

The next thing he knew he was on the deck 
of the Madison^ flat on his back, his head on 
Hendershott’s knee, a pretty girl kneeling 
beside him, and a cluster of kindly faces 
grouped, apparently in mid-air — for his sight 
and senses were still confused. 

“Lord, ain’t I glad to see your masthead 
lights agin!” said Hendershott — by which 
fine figure he meant Dick’s eyes, — and he 
heaved a sigh of relief that was a young 
breeze. “ How d’ye feel, boy? ” 

“Oh, I’m all right!” said Dick, but his 
voice was feeble. 

“ Is he. Doctor? ” asked Hendershott, 
appealing to the ship’s surgeon. 

“Well, I wouldn’t let him go diving again 
to-day, Hendershott,” was the answer. “But 
don’t be scared at that blood — there’s none of 
it from his lungs. It’s all from his head and 
throat.” 

Blood? Dick put up his hand mechanically 
and passed it over his face. It reeked like a 
butcher’s. 

“Who did it?” he asked, wonderingly. 

“Nobody, boy; it was the pressure o’ th’ 


222 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


water, an’ th’ closeness o’ th’ helmet. I 
hadn’t oughter let you go down,” groaned 
Hendershott, remorsefully. ‘‘Why didn’t 
you pull the cord sooner? ” 

“Cord?” said Dick. “I — I forgot theer 
was a cord.” And he was going to put up 
the other hand to rub his stupid head, when 
he sat up abruptly, and cast something from 
him. It fell on the deck with a crash quite 
disproportionate to its size, for it was the 
object his fingers had closed on. 

The whole scene had rushed back on him, 
and struggling up on his sound foot he 
saluted the Captain of the Madison, and 
began : 

“I got a hold o’ that theer, sir, — ” when 
Hendershott interrupted : 

“But you did pull th’ cord, you jerked it so 
furious we hauled you up a-hummin’.” (You 
see he was not a man-o’-war’s man, so to him 
captains were not such awe-inspiring crea- 
tures as they ought to be on their own quar- 
ter-decks.) 

“No, sir, I didn’t,” said Dick, modestly 
but firmly; “I only wisht I’d ’a’ thought of 
it. It’d ’a’ slaved me from gittin’ hold o’ that 
when I broke through.” 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


223 


Broke through what? ” 

“ The wreck.” 

‘‘Whew!” said Hendershott, with a ges- 
ture of dismay; “his head’s clean gone.” 

“No, sir, it ain’t ! Theer’s the provin’.” 

“What?” 

“Thet — thet — bone,” pointing with keen 
disrelish to his find. 

^^Bone!'' There was a whole sheaf of 
exclamation points in Hendershott’s voice, 
and the Captain himself interrupted : 

“What do you mean? ” 

Then Dick told him how he had gone 
aboard, and the consequences ; adding, “An’ 
I thrashed ’round so in the scoop-out that I 
busted through the Hosy-MarVs upper deck — 
theer must a-ben a old hatch or suthin’ 
handy ; an’ while I was a-scratchin’ tooth- 
an’-toe-nail to keep from droppin’ I didn’t 
know wheer, an’ amongst I didn’t know what, 
— that is,” corrected truthful Dick — “I mean, 
sir, ’mongst them dead Spaniardses’ bones, I 
got a-hold o’ one o’ ’em. An’ theer it is.” 

“Pretty heavy for a bone,” said the Cap- 
tain, as he balanced it in his hand. “ Here, 
Mr. Bayne, will you test this, please, sir?” 

Not that he believed Dick’s story, for he 


224 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


knew the hallucinations produced by any 
undue pressure of blood on the brain, but it 
was his duty to thoroughly investigate every- 
thing the pumps or divers brought up, even 
if it were the last day of his detail. 

Then every body gathered around the boy, 
and made him repeat it all until he was hot 
with embarrassment, and overwhelmed with 
mortification to think he had “ben doin’ 
women’s trick — a-faintin’.” 

It was a delightful episode to the guests, 
and they took sides almost violently as to the 
upshot of the adventure. One faction, led 
by Miss Edyth, insisted the treasure was 
actually recovered, and that volatile young 
person assumed the whole credit of the affair. 

“Just fancy,” she said to the Captain, “if 
I hadn’t sent him down it wouldn’t have hap- 
pened ! I think it’s the most romantic thing I 
ever heard of. Oh, do go below, and see 
what has become of Mr. Bayne and the 
bone ! ” 

And he went readily ; for Mr. Bayne had 
been below quite long enough to detect the 
stone, or bit of drift-wreck, or ancient clam 
shell, which the find would of course prove 
to be. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


225 


A strong smell of chemicals stung his nos- 
trils the chief element being the deadly fumes 
of nitric acid. Burying his nose in his hand- 
kerchief, and stirred by an excitement he 
refused to acknowlege, he pushed ahead to 
the state-room out of which the vapors 
floated. There stood Bayne in his mask, 
bending over the wash-stand, pale and eager, 
the find in one hand and the bottle in the 
other. The latter was tilted, and the precious 
stuff was slowly gathering to drop. 

He halted. The globule of liquid grew 
larger, then flashed a moment in the light and 
fell. Another and another. Then : 

“By the living Lord!” he heard Bayne 
gasp, in an awestruck tone. 

“What is it, Bayne?” 

And he, turning, answered solemnly : 

“ One of the ‘ 100 silver virgins’ of the Jose 
Maria's invoice.” 

The treasure was found ! 


226 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


XIL 

T he first impulse and desire of the officers 
was, of course, to get rid of the guests ; 
but the captain realized the wisdom of detain- 
ing them until it would be too late for them 
to spread the news of the find that night at 
least. So he sent for the steward and told 
him to spread as pretty a lunch as he could 
get up at short notice, and to serve the 
courses as slowly as possible, then to hunt up 
a fiddler among the men for a little dance 
afterward. 

The ports were all opened and a ventilator 
rigged, so as to clear away the fumes of the 
nitric acid, and then lunch was served. 

As soon as they were seated the captain 
said : 

^‘Ladies and gentlemen, I take great 
pleasure in announcing to you that we have 
brought up a valuable bit of the Jose Maria's 
treasure. Here it is — an ingot of silver, 
molded roughly into the semblance of a 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


227 


woman with veiled head and flowing draper- 
ies ; and here is a copy of the old invoice that 
the English captain mailed the day he was 
drowned, which identifies it as one of the ^ 100 
silver virgins ’ forming part of the galleon’s 
cargo. Examine them at your leisure — 
there’s no hurry in the world ; but permit me 
to leave you in charge of Lieutenant Bayne, 
for I have despatches to send and orders to 
give.” 

The statuette was handed down one side of 
the table and the paper down the other; at 
the foot they ‘‘swung corners,” crossed over, 
and came back on opposite sides — quite as if 
they had been doing a figure in a quadrille — 
under a heavy cross-fire of questions, excla- 
mations and congratulations. 

Once on deck the captain called Hender- 
shott aft and conferred for a few minutes, 
jotted down several items, and said shaking 
hands with him warmly, 

“It’s a good day’s work for you, Hender- 
shott. You know the bargain was twenty 
thousand dollars the moment you touched 
the treasure — ” 

“The boy must git his share of it,” broke 
in the diver, anxiously. 


228 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


“That rests with you entirely; for you 
employed him, and a man may do what he 
will with his own. You’ll go down at slack- 
water of course? It’s a pity he can’t be with 
you until these — five, you say? Do you 
want all of these men telegraphed for?” 

“Aye, aye, sir! an’ even then the wreck’ll 
be a handful. See them mare’s tails * 
a- whiskin’ over yonder? Well, that means a 
blow’s a- brewin’, an’ you want to clar out the 
hull afore she gits here.” 

“Why? She won’t be apt to go to pieces, 
and her copper cradle ought to hold things 
snug. You see I’m only authorized to 
employ such outside help as is actually 
necessary.” 

“She’ll hold fast enough in that stiff clay, 
but the copperin’ ain’t a-goin’ to keep the sea 
out a-top wheer the boy bust through ; an’ 
fust, you know, if a Nor’-easter comes snorin’ 
along here, a current’ll set up that’ll scoop 
her same as a big hand would I ’Sides that, 
the silt’ll be runnin’ in an’ fillin’ her up.” 

“You’re right,” answered the captain, 

* Long, plume-like clouds that float up in advance 
of a storm. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


229 


scratching away vigorously with his pencil 
for a few minutes, and then handing him a 
handful of telegrams. ‘‘Take the dingy and 
go ashore with these, will you? See them 
sent yourself, and bring back the duplicate 
blanks. And I say, Hendershott, come off 
as soon as you can ; for you’ve made me feel 
as though there were a ship-load of pirates 
alongside, stealing the treasure under my 
very nose.” 

So Dick and the diver tumbled into the 
dingy and pulled ashore right enough, but for 
the former landing was quite another ques- 
tion. His foot was swollen to the size of a 
cantaloupe, and striped with great bruises, 
while the partial dislocation made walking an 
impossibility. 

“Better hev a lift, Dick,” said Hender- 
shott. 

“Don’t see e’er a wagon handy, sir.” 

“ Lemme git one. I’ll stand treat.” 

“No, sir,” said Dick; “I guess I bain’t as 
beat as that.” 

“All right,” said Hendershott. “I ain’t 
proud, you kin git th’ turn-out ! ” 

Dick smiled pretty successfully for a fellow 
in such pain. 


230 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


“What you a-grinnin’ at?” growled the 
diver. “Young fellows with bank accounts 
ought to be willin’ to give an’ take.” 

“Right you are, sir,” said Dick; “an’ ef I 
was one of ’em you should have a coach-an’- 
four, wi’ — ” 

“You interrupted Hendershott, gruffly. 

“What you mean, sir?” (in blank aston- 
ishment.) 

“Why, you’ve got five thousand dollars o’ 
your own 1 ” 

“ Land, Cap’n, I ain’t got five cents !” 

“S’pose I don’t know how to tell the 
truth?” (with every appearance of indigna- 
tion.) 

“’Course I don’t s’pose any such a thing!” 
answered Dick quickly, thinking in his turn 
that Hendershott had lost his head. 

“Then don’t conterdict, but draw on your 
’count.” 

“Wheer is it, Cap’n?” asked Dick. 

“ In the bank at Philadelphy.” 

“Wheer did it come fum?” (thinking to 
humor his fancy.) 

“Fum the Comp’ny, for findin’ the Hos^ 
Mar Vs treasure.” 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 2gl 

“ Sho’ now, Cap’n ! ” said Dick; “thet’s 
all yours.” 

“’Tain’t!” 

<‘Why, /did’nt do nothin’ — ” 

“ ’Cept find it.” 

“But, Cap’n — ” 

“Young Dick, sbet up! Ef you hadn’t 
gone down to save my skeered old carcass a 
shiver an’ my rep’tation a ruinin’ it wouldn’t 
a-ben found at all.” 

“But, Cap’n, I done it for you, free an’ 
willin’.” 

“ S’pose I don’t know that? Now belay 
your chin-music, an’ don’t quarrel wi’ your 
luck.” 

“Five thou-sand dol-lars!” said Dick, 
softly to himself. “That’s a mortal lot o’ 
money I ” 

“ Not too much for what’s wantin’ at home 
just now,” broke in Hendershott. 

“Cap’n, it is, an’ it ’ud be downright 
wicked. I can’t do it. Make it three thou- 
sand, if you will, an’ I’ll thank you on my 
knees ; fur that’ll square up the world fur 
Uncle Judkins, an’ marm an’ the Sand- 
Pipers ; an’ that’s all it’s needsome to think 
’bout.” 


232 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


‘‘Young Dick, I wouldn’t a-bleeved you’d 
make such a nat’ral born idjit o’ yourself — 
an’ you ownin’ a chronom’ter o’ your own, an* 
able to take the sun wi’ the best, too ! 
Whar’s your start money cornin’ from, when 
you want to foot a deck o’ your own some 
day? Whar’s—” 

“ Cap’n, you’re — you’re” then he stopped, 
waving his hand with a large comprehensive 
sweep not at all inappropriate. “ I’m took 
flat aback wi’ all sail set ! I ain’t got any 
words that’ll — ” 

“ Ef you say another one I’ll fetch you a 
crack over the head wi’ these rowlocks that’ll 
non-compass* you sure. Then I’ll app’int 
myself guardeen an’ settle th’ estate. You 
see this here law talk’s ben so improvin’ I 
know just what to do.” Then he chuckled 
hilariously as he poked Dick in the ribs and 
asked : 

“What you s’pose that land shark’ll say 
when he sees you a-shovellin’ out the dollars? 
He’d better be a-huntin’ up a hole small 
enough to fit him, an’ when he’s found it 
crawl into it quick ; fur if I catch up wi’ him 

* He had heard the phrase non compos mentis'^ 
and liked it. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 233 

I’ll frazzle him to oakum ! ” (This last with 
a growl like an angry old sea-lion.) 

Just then one of Marshall’s daytons drove 
by, and Hendershott hailed the driver, 
explaining Dick’s hurt and bundling him in 
with a strong hand. Then he hurried to the 
telegraph office, and from there to the house, 
where between them they told their exciting 
story. 

Jonas said nothing at first, but he gripped 
a hand of the boy he had raised and of the 
friend he had grown to through years of blow 
and shine, holding them both in his own sound 
one ; and as he looked at fii;st one and then 
the other, with a gaze as deepNas his emotion, 
these words shaped themselves slowly into 
sentences : 

“Dick, you’re bread on the waters. Jack, 
the pole-star ain’t no truer’n you be. Here I 
ben a-mutineerin’ ever since th’ Lord put me 
in th’ brig,* an’ clapped His irons onto my 
leg and arm. I ben a-callin’ it all onjust 
trouble, an’ seein’ nothin’ but the blackness 
an’ the deadness of it, when I’d ought to ben 
hangin’ hard to th’ weather brace an’ trustin’ 


The ship’s prison, the place of close confinement. 


234 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


to His steerin’. An’ just when ’twas ‘ break- 
ers ahead an’ th’ wind dead astarn,’ along 
comes God for us all, same as when He was 
back yander in Galilee a-layin’ the winds and 
waves fur them others o’ little faith.” 

And Dick said: <‘Aye, aye, sir!” very 
respectfully; and Hendershott, with vague 
memories of the few times he’d been beguiled 
to “chapel,” gave a deep-throated “Amen.” 
And then they shook hands, and were about 
settling down when in dashed the Sand- 
Pipers. 

A few words gave them the gist of the 
news, and then Ginevra Mary showed her 
metal. With a shrill “Hooray!” she 
pounced on her open-mouthed twin, and, 
shaking her vigorously, said : 

“There, Ginnie Barlow! What’d I tell 
you? She's a-beginnin' 

Then she flung her arms around Jonas’ 
neck, crying triumphantly : 

“What you think of my Lady now, uncle? 
Ain’t she a bird, an’ a darlin’ an’ a dear? 
She’ll be you next, I guess.” 

And she laid her fresh, rosy cheek against 
his grizzled brown one and kissed him explo- 
sively. Then she charged at her mother, 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


235 


who appeared in the doorway, hugging her 
like a young grizzly, and bearing her down 
into the nearest chair by her impetuosity. 

“Just you wait, lovey ! Pm prayin’ tight’s 
ever I can, an’ so’s Ginnie — on’y hers is fits- 
an’-starts, — fur somethin’ you want awful 
bad. She knows, an’ Pm most sure she’s 
a-goin’ to help us ! ” 

The light of faith shone so clear and strong 
in her eyes and her tone was so assured that 
Idella’s wandering attention was arrested ; 
she made a puzzled effort to understand, but 
after a few minutes she smiled gently, and, 
patting the hot little shoulder that heaved 
and panted on her breast, said : 

“Theer, theer, mother’s baby ! Don’t take 
on so ; daddy’ll come soon, an’ then ev’y- 
thing’ll be smooth sailin’.” 

“Won’t it though?” was the fervent 
answer. Then : “Come ’long, Ginnie ! ” 

And out they both darted to the Dune, 
their flaxen pigtails whisking “seven ways 
for Sunday,” with the speed of their flight. 
In an incredibly short time they were at the 
cottage, puffing, and panting out their thanks 
to Our Lady before her picture. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


236 

Mary Ginevra’s included a very sincere 
apology : 

“’Scuse me, my Lady, for not bein’ as set 
as Mollie ! But she is so brash an’ perky 
’casionally thet I hev to go contrairy, else 
she’d ride all over me. I don’t mind,” she 
added hastily, ^‘fur I’m dowright fond o’ her; 
but I git pernicketty sometimes myself — I 
won’t be again though — ’bout daddy’s cornin’ 
home. She shall hev her own way right 
’long now as fur as that goes ; an’, hopin’ you 
will ’scuse me. I’ll plump my prayers in wi’ 
hers. Could you bring him ’long soon? 
Fur, O my Lady! waitin’ fur what you don’t 
feel sure o’ gittin’ is hard and lonesome 
work I ” 

And a whole college of cardinals could not 
have gainsaid that last or put it more neatly. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


237 


XIII. 

T he scene with Dixson fully realized Hen- 
dershott’s expectations, and gave that 
slippery young person his first perception 
that perhaps, after all, honesty and integrity 
were better in the long run than sharpness 
and unscrupulous quibbles ; for the settle- 
ment of the claim was made a very imposing 
occasion. Judge Comegys, Mr. Burton, Mr. 
Rodney and Doctor Burton being present to 
see their old friend safely through, both 
legally and physically. 

The dignity of these gentlemen, the stately 
ceremony with which they froze their scamp- 
ish young brother, and the calm deliberation 
with which they scrutinized the papers, 
deeds, etc., pointing out one or two carelessly 
copied clauses, and suggesting their correc- 
tion with a citation of statutes and rulings 
that rang sonorously on the air, — all made it 
a very trying hour for him ; but this discom- 
fort was as nothing to that he felt when he 
found himself sandwiched between Idella’s 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


238 

sombre eyes and Hendershott’s angry ones. 
He knew lunatics were very sudden, and he 
trembled for his worthless body as if it had 
been really valuable ; and he also noticed 
sundry movements of the diver’s fists that 
made curious little crinkles catch his muscles 
and quicken his breath. 

The climax of the diver’s satisfaction was 
reached when the moment of payment came, 
and the judge asked as a matter of form : 

“Are you ready to meet the debt? ” 

Jonas bowed silently and looked at Hen- 
dershott, who was fearfully and wonderfully 
rigged in a suit of black broadcloth, and wore 
a collar so large and stiff that he literally 
could not turn his head ; he could nod it 
though, and this he did with an emphasis 
that focused every eye in the room upon him, 
as he waved his hand toward the inner door, 
saying, 

“ Dick, No. I ! ” 

Dick rose, and presently a rumbling sound 
was heard, and he came in trundling a wheel- 
barrow, in which lay big bags and little bags, 
loose silver and rouleaux. He set it down 
before E)ixson, to whom Hendershott ordered: 

“Count it'” 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


239 


This he did — fifteen hundred dollars. 

Then Hendershott said : 

‘‘ Dick, No. 2 ! ” 

And Dick wheeled in a second load, at 
sight of which the diver grinned, and Dixson 
cried out angrily : 

‘‘I can’t take all this silver! It’s ridicu- 
lous to expect it.” 

“Then you kin leave it,” answered the 
diver. “Nobody’ll cry, I guess.” 

“But,” fumed Dixson. 

“But,” mimicked the diver, “look a-here. 
You’re a nice one, you are 1 Thar bain’t no 
suitin’ you 1 Fust you come a-howlin’ fur 
money we didn’t owe, and kicked up a 
rumpus cause it wasn’t paid ; an’ now we 
gone an’ paid it, you’re a-tryin’ to raise 
another.” 

“I’ll have to hire a wagon to take it 
away ! ” said Dixson. 

“We’re willin’ you should,” answered Hen- 
dershott, cheerfully. 

“Gentlemen, is there no protection for me 
against insults in the discharge of my duty?” 
(turning to the judge and his companions.) 

“We’re not aware any have been offered, 
sir,” was the courteous response. 


240 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


But see how I’m paid ! ” 

“There was no special form of payment 
demanded was there? I understood that the 
sum total alone was designated.” 

“Well, who would have guessed they’d 
raise it? ” (rudely.) 

“That’s scarcely to the point,” said the 
judge, dryly. 

“It’s a conspiracy! I can’t handle these 
miserable — ” 

“They ain’t miserable I ” interrupted Hen- 
dershott; “not by a long chalk, they ain’t! 
They’re good loo-cents-to-the dollar bits o’ 
pure silver ! I’d ought to know ; fur ain’t I 
ben a-bitin’ of ’em, an’ had Dick a-bitin’ of 
’em an’ the twins a-ringin’ of ’em right along, 
tell our jaws ached, an’ the little gals was 
dead beat? An’ now, young man, sign that 
recipe (receipt?), and git ! We’ve had 
enough o’ you, an’ a sight too much. None 
o’ your lip ! When I say ‘git !’ I mean it, 
an’ it’s a heap healthier than stayin’. Thar’s 
the door ! ” (swinging both arms toward it in 
a way highly suggestive of pitching some- 
thing out.) “Dick, guess we’d better save 
manners an’ speed the partin’ guest ; bear a 
hand thar, an’ I’ll come ’long too.” 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


241 


And they trundled the barrows out and 
down the street to the station, where Dixson, 
after much struggling and more swearing, got 
the contents boxed and expressed amid a far- 
off but audible atmosphere of tarry laughter 
and barbed jokes. 

The memory of it was a sweet morsel to 
the diver ; and whenever, in the busy days 
that followed, he could spare time to smoke 
a pipe, he’d mutter between puffs : 

“Three thousan’s thirty hundred — thirty 
hundred o’ them cart-wheel silver dollars ! 
Wisht I could a made him carry ’em on his 
back! Land, wouldn’t he-a sagged under the 
weight 1 Wisht I could-a made him take a 
sep’rate trip fur every single one of ’em, an’ 
walk both ways! Jack, you done a fancy 
stroke that time, and don’t you forget it ! ” 

And then he would chuckle, wink at what- 
ever his eye struck, and go back to work 
greatly refreshed. 


242 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


XIV. 

W HEN a rain is over and the first ray of 
sunshine pierces the gloom, have you 
ever noticed with what magical rapidity the 
light broadens, the clouds roll themselves 
off the scene, and the sky resumes its unbro- 
ken arch of blue? It is like a stage trans- 
formation in its swiftness and completeness. 
That was the way with the troubles of the 
little household by the sea. Once the rift was 
made, events marched so rapidly they 
scarcely found time for breath between the 
happenings, and furnished abundant material 
for all the fireside and newspaper story-tellers 
in the state and county. 

It was this way. November had come, and 
had dropped in the world’s lap a few days so 
beautiful and mild that the children went 
wild, the late birds thought second thoughts 
about migration, and a few flowers and but- 
terflies nodded and danced in the soft air and 
warm sunshine. The women brought their 
household tasks out -doors, windows were 
thrown open, and fires put out. But the old 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 243 

men shook their shaggy heads and would 
“take no stock” in it. “Weather-breed- 
ers ! ” they growled, and rose and sat stiffly 
with the aches and pains that fly before a 
change. “Weather-breeders; an’ it’ll be 
‘ fare-you-well, my Mary Anne!’ when once 
the wind does slip cable.” 

And the event proved them right ; for on 
the evening of the 6th, the sun went down 
in a wild smear of red, and there was a 
metallic ring to the surf as it hammered on 
the beach. Ship after ship came running 
into the harbor, and each reported other sail 
crowding after. By daybreak those that got 
in did it by dint of sheer pluck and luck ; and 
by ten o’clock all the able-bodied men in 
town were huddled on the sands, watching a 
brigantine and a bark that were struggling 
desperately to claw off the shoals, about 
which the sea bellowed and roared and the 
foam flew like a snow squall. 

The bark was well handled, but something 
seemed amiss with the brig, and she made 
leeway so fast that the swiftest runner in the 
crowd was sent back to Lewes to telegraph 
the life crew at Rehoboth to “limber up” 
the boat wagon and come along. 


244 JOSE-MARIA. 

Did yoii ever watch a ship going to her 
death? The waves lash her stern and sides 
till she shudderingly labors up the green 
ridges that fling their tons of water on her ; 
she trembles on the crest like a sentient creat- 
ure ; then she makes a shivering plunge, and 
lies groaning in the trough of the sea until 
goaded up another height ; her anchors clutch 
at the bottom like the fingers of a drowning 
man ; she trys to spread her broken wings ; 
she shakes off every burden that can be 
spared from cargo and armament. But all 
the time she crawls nearer and nearer the 
white death under her bows, until with a sud- 
den leap she’s hard aground, and then the 
wind and sea fall on her and tear and rend 
her to pieces. 

As the brig took the ground a half groan 
went up, and a great restlessness pervaded 
the crowd until the life-boat hove in sight, — 
the horses galloping, the men clinging with 
hands, feet, arms, legs, even teeth — anything 
that would grip and hold. A horse fell 
winded, but they cut the traces and left him ; 
another staggered and rolled over ; they left 
him, too ; volunteers sprang from the group 
on the sands, and men and horses dashed on 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 245 

the beach with a yell and a whinny that 
brought a faint response from the wreck. 

The crew were called. All answered until 
“No. 4” — Job Ransom. Then an unfamiliar 
voice made the captain look up. But when 
he saw it was a sturdy fellow he let the boat 
go ; for a small swivel was fired from the 
wreck, and the foremast was bending like a 
whip. 

“ Ready? ” 

“Aye, aye!” And with muscles of iron 
and hearts of steel they leaped at their work. 

As they rushed through the bursting surf 
with the boat and scrambled over her sides — 
she rearing and plunging like a bucking 
bronco, — put out their oars, and laid their 
backs to it with a will, a strange feeling of 
impatience took possession of Dick. He was 
conscious of an almost uncontrollable desire 
to double his stroke and to storm at the men 
— all his seniors — because they pulled so 
deep and slow. The death-waves* seemed 
to him to bear down on them in groups 
instead of singly ; and when the intermediate 
seas burst under the bows of the Petrel^ mak- 

* Every ninth wave ; so called by sailor on account 
of their size and power. 


THE JUSE-MARIA. 


246 

ing her toss her nose into the air or burying 
her under their floods, he groaned aloud with 
vexation at the time lost in recovering way.” 
His head was as if set on a pivot, and turned 
so often and so restlessly toward the wreck, 
that Truxton, the stroke, supposing him to be 
nervous as to her fate, said kindly : 

“All right, Dick. She’ll hold together till 
we get her crew off, anyway. Don’t fret.’ 

“Glad o’ that, sir,” answered Dick. But 
still his muscles quivered so strangely that, 
as the little craft slid uncertainly down a 
transversely rolling sea, the captain had to 
call out : 

“ Steady there. No. 4 ! Steady ! ” 

Then he buckled down to work so reso- 
lutely that the next minutes of roar and 
smother, and shock and struggle, laboring 
oars and panting breath, blinded vision and 
deafened ears, seemed interminably long, and 
yet incredibly short when word was passed to 
“ease up,” for they were as near the wreck 
as they dared go. 

The moments that followed were filled with 
the noblest joy and deepest regret that can 
come to true men, — the joy of saving life, 
and the pain of seeing it snatched back from 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 247 

their grasp ; for two poor fellows were washed 
from the line and swept to their death with 
wild white faces, and outstretched arms that 
grasped nothing but the unstable waters ; and 
another was dashed so violently against the 
ship’s side, just as he cleared the taffrail, that 
he fell senseless into the current and was 
whirled to a deep-sea grave. 

Dick had never been out in the life-boat 
before, but he felt as if he were taking part 
in a set of perfectly familiar scenes, each one 
of which he knew in detail before it hap- 
pened. The brig was absolutely a strange 
vessel to him, but he recognized her every 
line and spar. Her foretop-mast had snapped 
off short, and the sails were bursting away 
like puffs of white smoke, — he knew they 
would. There was something in the shrouds 
— “a piece of sail,” one of the boat’s crew 
had said ; but he knew better. And when a 
sudden stir made him aware that the main- 
stays and braces had given, and the mainmast 
was splitting and wavering for a fall, he sud- 
denly sprang erect, and hollowing his hands 
about his mouth, shouted : 

Cut loose and swim fur it, daddy ! ” 

The man in the shrouds raised his head. 


248 THE JOSE-MARIA. 

which had fallen forward on his breast, and 
looked about him, — his long grey hair and 
beard streaming in the gale. 

Dick repeated his cry, excitement making 
his voice as clear as a trumpet and nearly as 
strong. And as he did so: 

<< That’s right, young un ! ” came from one 
of the rescued men. “ If ever a one of us 
ought to be saved it’s that old codger. 
Nussed us through Yellow Jack* at Monty- 
vidday o last summer, and’s taken extry 
night-watches time’n again — had ’em three 
nights hand-runnin’ this spell — for we was all 
broke up with handlin’ the spars and sails, 
half of us bein’ gone to Davy Jones. Last 
night he lashed himself thar for a lookout. 
Hooray for the old man ! ” 

And they broke into a cheer that made up 
in intention what it lacked in volume. 

Simultaneously with it Dick siezed a line, 
plunged over the side, and, stayed up partly 
by the big cork jacket that forms a portion of 
the life-boat uniform, and partly.by the excite- 
ment that raged in his veins, he swam for the 
wreck as “the old man” took out his sheath 


* Yellow fever. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


249 


knife, cut the lashings, and sprang into the 
water — not a minute too soon ; for the main- 
mast gave and fell, crashing against the stump 
of the foremast, carrying it down in the same 
ruin. Heaven favored Dick’s rashness. The 
current and wash tossed them together, and 
after some hard hauling they were both 
pulled inboard and the boat headed for shore. 

On the way back the boy sat in a half- 
stupor, mechanically dipping his oar, and 
occasionally pulling hard to trim the boat 
when the transverse seas ‘^chopped” the 
water under her ; but his strength was spent 
and the unnatural excitement gone. He tried 
to get a look at the man he had rescued, won- 
dering what in the world had made him call 
out as he did ; but the poor fellows had 
already tumbled down wherever they could fit, 
and some of them were actually asleep from 
exhaustion. 

As they landed, a dozen willing hands 
beached the boat, and a hundred throats 
roared a welcome. Then an old greybeard 
sang out : 

“ Another for the barkie ! ” 

And that, too, was a ‘‘peeler”; for the bark 
had thrown out anchors and grapples ; some 


250 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


of them were holding, and she was riding 
hard but safe, with six feet of water between 
her keel and the bottom. 

As the sound ceased “ the old man ” turned 
to Dick. 

“What be your name? ” 

And Dick, like a real Yankee, ^nswered : 

“And what be yours, sir? ” 

“’Liakim Barlow, o’ Gloucester.” 

“I knew it!” cried Dick, with a knot as 
big as his fist in his throat. “O daddy, 
daddy. I’m Dick ! ” 

Then he must have forgotten he had a fuzz 
on his lip and a deposit in the bank, — that he 
had done a strong man’s work that day, and 
had the biceps of a blacksmith ; for he threw 
his arms around his father’s neck and kissed 
his bronzed face a dozen times, just as he 
used to when he was a little chap. Then 
they gripped hands in a way that would have 
made you and me cripples for life, and looked 
at each other till each was hid from the other 
by a salt mist — maybe from the flying scud 
outside. 

Then ’Liakim said : 

“Your marm an’ the babies, are they — are 
they — ” 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


251 


‘^Safe and sound, sir.” 

Thank the Lord A’mighty ! ” was the 
fervent response. Wheer? ” 

‘‘Wi’ Uncle Judkins,” said Dick. And 
then he laughed from pure excitement. 
‘‘Land, won’t Mollie just be rampagious ! 
She’ll raise the roof over our heads. She’s 
kept a-sayin’ ev’y day for most a year you 
was a-comin’.” 

“What made her? ” 

“ Said her Lady was a-goin’ to bring you.” 

“ Her Lady?” 

“Yes, sir. Thar was a French sailor giv’ 
her an’ Ginnie a picture o’ the Virgin Mary 
an’ the Infant Saviour. An’ she’s took on 
like a kittiwake ever sense, a-prayin’ an’ 
a-scoldin’ an’ a hustlin’ for you ef you was 
alive, or for news of you ef you was dead.” 

“That’s curis ! What day’s this? ” 

“The 7th o’ November.” 

“That cert’n’y is curis. An’ she’s ben 
a-sayin’ her Lady’d do it?” 

“She don’t let up on it a d?.y, sir.” 

“ Mebbe she did,” said ’Liakim, thought- 
fully; “ mebbe she did. But your marm, 
Dickie, — you ain’t said how she is.” 


252 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


“ See’s better, sir, — a heap better ; an’ I bet 
she’ll know you quick as a wink. She’s — 
she’s — you know she’s a leetle mite touched 
up aloft e>ver sence the time the ‘ ' Lizabeth 
Jane' come home ’thout you, — just a leetle,” 
he added hurriedly; “but fur all that she's 
stuck to it you was a cornin’ home too.” 

“ I know.” 

“You — how’d you know, sir?” 

“The babies’ sailor, Dick. Oh, that’s a 
queer yarn, but I’m beat now — ” 

“Don’t talk, daddy,” said Dick remorse- 
fully. “ I hadn’t ought to let you, an’ I ain’t 
goin’ to ask you nothin’ more, though I’m 
most crazy to know how we got you home — 
whew, that’s a breather, sir ! ” 

“ Breather” was a mild name for it. The 
wind, that seemed about to go down at the 
turn of the tide, suddenly leaped into the 
west, and blew such big guns it was hard 
work to make headway against it. The two 
men, being drenched through, were soon 
chilled to the bone, and Dick heaved a long 
sigh of relief as they reached home and closed 
the door behind them. 

Judkins was asleep in his chair, and as the 
doctor had said he must never be awakened 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


253 


suddenly, Dick quietly hurried his father up- 
stairs, where he rubbed him down with salt 
and whiskey, gave him dry flannels, wrapped 
him up in a blanket, gave him a dose of hot 
grog, and saw him comfortably stowed in a 
bunk and safely off to the Land of Nod ; then 
he shifted into dry things himself, and sat 
down on the edge of his berth to pull on dry 
socks. But if he had belonged to the “Sleep- 
ing Beauty’s” court he could not have fallen 
asleep more suddenly nor slept more pro- 
foundly than he did, unconscious of the ever- 
increasing violence of the gale and the news 
that was hurrying to meet them. 

As the tumult waxed louder, it gradually 
wakened Jonas ; and on seeing that the dinner 
hour was past, and none of his family had 
turned up, he wheeled out into the kitchen 
and began, making a cup of coffee, which, with 
a ship’s biscuit, would serve as a “stop-gap.” 

“Whew!” he muttered; “this is a rip- 
snorter, an* no mistake 1 Wonder how the 
brig an’ bark come out? Nasty weather for 
the Hen-an’-chickens to be a-layin’ for your 
bones. Hark to the guns — no, it’s the seas 
a-bangin’ on the Breakwater.” 

The sound was like a heavy cannonading, 


254 the jose-maria. 

and the view from the shore confirmed the 
illusion — there would be a flash of curving 
crest, a crash of smiting waters, and then the 
spray would go whirling off in clouds and 
long spirals, just like the smoke of an artillery 
discharge. And the wind ! It ripped the sea 
into a thousand curdling furrows, and hurtled 
through the streets, beating and snatching at 
the houses, until the dishes on the shelves 
danced, the timbers hummed, and the very 
atmosphere seemed to reel under its impact. 

Through it a man came, fighting his way 
toward Judkin’s cottage — head down, should- 
ering along as if forcing his passage through 
a turbulent crowd ; arms raised to shield his 
eyes from the stinging, flying sand, and to 
keep his breath from being snatched out of 
his throat. Arrived there, he brought up by 
clutching the stanchion of the porch, and 
hanging against the wind, clothes, hair and 
beard standing horizontal Then he thund- 
ered at the door, and, in a voice that had been 
trained in the gales of all the world’s seas, 
shouted : 

‘‘Judkins, tumble up I say! ]\id-kins/'^ 

This last was a prolonged roar that brought 
Jonas wheeling down the passage with a 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


255 


shouted ‘^Ahoy !” that roused Dick and his 
father. But the wind blew his voice back in 
his teeth, so he made a long arm, hauled his 
visitor inside, and slammed the door. 

‘ ‘ Theer ! ” said he ; “ now I can hear myself 
think. What’s the news, Mac?” — eagerly. 
“Hev the brig an’ bark took the ground ? 
What ? One struck and one held ? Which 
did what ? ” 

'‘Brig struck.” 

“Any lost ? ” 

“Three. Six come off on a line, and your 
Dick jumped in an’ pulled another one out.” 

^^Dick! How’d he git theer?” 

“Took Job Ransom’s place.” 

“Who sent him? ” 

“ He went. Job’s got a bone felon — a bad 
one, — had to hev it cut last night. So when 
Dick heard the life-boat called he run hard’s 
he could split, shook into Job’s boots an’ 
jacket, an’ pulled wi’ the best o’ ’em.” 

“ Sho now! I s’pose you’ll be tellin’ me 
next that Mollie an’ Ginnie’s a-prancin’ round 
in it too. That boy — sho now! — sixteen year 
old an’ pullin’ in a gale like this ! Sich fool- 
ishness ! ” 

But, oh, he was pleased ! 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


256 

“ Hello, thar goes my coffee ! ” as a sudden, 
sputtering sound was heard, and a cloud of 
fragrant smoke drifted out to them. <*Run, 
set the pot back, Mac, an’ then we’ll hev a 
cu-p together.” 

But MacPherson didn’t move ; he lifted his 
hand once or twice toward his lips, then 
stopped midway in the act, with a look of 
irresolution strange enough in such a strongly 
marked face. 

“Why don't you — ” began Jonas, when, 
peering keenly at his comrade, he stopped 
and cried : “Outwi’it! Is it — is it the boy? 
You said he pulled wi’ the best — ” 

“No: thar he is,” said MacPherson, look- 
ing much relieved as he caught sight of Dick. 
Then he backed toward the door, caught hold 
of the handle and cried out: “The Dune’s 
up !” 

“What ?” 

“The Crawl’s took her head, an’ she’s 
a-whirlin’.” 

“Well?” — but his lips were stiff. 

“An’ your sister — ” 

“She’s at Miss Truxton’s,” interrupted 
Jonas, hastily. “Ain’t she, Dick ?” 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


257 


“I left her theer, sir,” began Dick, when 
MacPherson broke in : 

^‘No, she ain’t. When it come on to blow 
so hard they couldn’t keep her. She watched 
her chance, an’ slipped out the house like a — 
like a ghost, an’ run to the Ridge — land, how 
she did run ! — an’ whipped into th^t house, 
ari^'thar she is now!'' 

Then he bolted 



258 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


XV. 

ORD A’mighty,” groaned Jonas, <‘hold 

I ^ onto that poor gell ! Keep her in th’ 
hollow o’ Your mighty hand; fur she’s 
a-laborin’ in the trough o’ the sea, an’ no mis- 
take ! ” 

But all the time he prayed he worked. He 
wheeled to the cupboard, jerked down his 
sou’wester, pea-jacket and big boots, which 
he threw into Dick’s arms ; then he trundled 
over to the tool-chest for an ax, a coil of rope, 
and a crowbar, which he thrust into a pair of 
eager hands that reached over his shoulder 
and looked strong enough to use them ; and 
then he fell back, panting and trembling, as 
he listened to the thump, thump of hurrying 
feet, with a dim sense of having heard Dick 
say something about his father, and of having 
seen a figure that looked grey and ghostly in 
the dim light of the passage way. 

Was it ’Liakim’s spirit come to take Idella? 
Was she already lying dead — crushed under 
the Dune’s whirling sands ? A shudder ran 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


259 


through the old sailor’s blood ; but his com- 
mon sense scouted the idea, and he bent his 
whole will to the happier belief that it was 
really his brother-in-law ; and that, by one of 
those marvellous incidents so common among 
seafaring men, he had escaped death, and 
been led home at the very moment he was 
most sorely needed. 

He sat there an hour, struggling for hope 
and patience. Then it was two hours. Then 
a neighbor brought Mary Ginevra and Ginevra 
Mary home. On the way from school they 
had heard some inkling of the news, and he 
had picked them up half-way to the Ridge, 
and brought them back in spite of their hard 
fighting. They pitched into the room, pant- 
ing, sobbing, crying. They precipitated 
themselves on old Jonas. 

Mayn't we go, uncle? All the folks say 
the Crawl’s a-killin marm, an’ theer’s a crowd 
o’ men over theer, an’ people a-runnin’, an’ — 
an’ — we'd ought to be theer to help.” 

“No, my birds. Theer’s quite enough o’ 
this here fam’ly a-flyin’ round permisc’us in 
this here gale. As fur your little marm, the 
Lord’s got her in tow, an’ you can help just 
as well stayin’ here.” 


26 o 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


<‘How?” sobbed Mary Ginevra. 

But Ginevra Mary knew, and dropped on 
her knees, raising her earnest little voice and 
shouting above the din of the storm : 

“O my Lady, bend down as fur as you 
can, an’ listen close ; for theer’s ,a sight o’ 
noise ! Ask Our Lord not to let marm git 
swallowed up in the Crawl. Tell him to 
’member how lonesome He’d a-ben when He 
was little ef anything had a-happened \o you. 
An’, O my Lady, ef daddy’s alive, keep an 
eye on him to-day, for this here’s a storm-an’- 
a-half, an’ wreckin’s awful easy this time o’ 
the year ! — She’ll do it !” she added, content- 
edly, as she scrambled to her feet. “I didn’t 
think about it when I was a-hollerin’ so. 
Come ’long, Ginnie ; let’s get something to 
eat. I’m hungry, an’ uncle — my! ain’t you 
had any dinner, uncle ? Here Ginnie Bar- 
low, step round lively; he’s ’most starved.” 

Once in the kitchen, her ambition soared 
higher. 

It’s as easy to cook a lot as a little,” she 
said oracularly, and the smut on her nose 
lent a sort of professional dignity and weight 
to her discourse. “Let’s make a big, hot 
dinner fur Dick an’ — an’ marm,” she added. 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 261 

Stoutly; ’cause when they git back they’ll 
be cold, an’ tired, an’ emptier’n drums,” 

And by sundown a dinner was simmering 
and bubbling in pots and pans that would 
make a hungry man’s mouth water ; and 
down the street, through the dying shrieks of 
the storm, came tramping not one but five 
hungry men to enjoy it. They were led by 
’Liakim and Dick ; the former carrying across 
his breast, as lightly as if she were a feather- 
weight, a little woman who had been bleed- 
ing profusely from a cut on the head, but 
who wa« otherwise absolutely unharmed by 
her seven hours’ imprisonment in the <‘Por- 
tugee’s cottage.” 

That evening, when the confused emotions 
of the household had settled into some sem- 
blance of order, ’Liakim and Idella told their 
stories. 

The former, when he drifted off in the dory, 
lived out the horror and the storm somehow ; 
but there came a time when he lost his reck- 
oning from starvation and thirst, and the 
next he remembered was finding himself on 
the deck of a whaler bound on a two years’ 
cruise, and too far on her voyage to make any 


262 THE JOSE-MARIA. 

port. What became of Dan Frost he never 
knew. The sailors who picked him up said 
he was alone in the boat when they sighted 
her. 

’Liakim worked his way on the voyage, and 
was such a valuable hand that the captain 
offered him a mate’s berth to re ship at St. 
John’s; but he was eager to get home, and 
travelled day and night to do it, utterly 
unprepared for the news that met him : 
^‘Hull fam’ly up stakes an’ went South — 
Floriday some say. Ain’t heerd a word sence 
they left.” He shipped at once on a Florida- 
bound schooner, and searched the coast fore- 
and-aft; then on a report that “tharwere a 
Yankee fellow jist gone to Bermuda Light, 
with a sister ah’ a whole passel o’ chil’ren,” 
he crossed to the islands, only to find 
strangers. Heart-sick and discouraged, he 
there shipped on a vessel bound for Rio and 
Montevideo. On the return cruise they put 
in at Havana to discharge part of a cargo and 
ship another. And there they cast anchor 
alongside a French merchantman. Some 
intercourse sprang up between the crews, and 
one morning, when the Americans were 
growling at the interruption to business 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


263 

caused by the religious festival then being 
celebrated, the first officer of the Rosette de 
Lyon came alongside, hailed ’Liakim and 
invited him to go ashore with him to see the 
function. He was a cheery, bright fellow, 
who spoke very good English, and ^Liakim 
went. 

The Cathedral was crowded and the day 
very close, so after Mass they stopped at a 
little cafe to drink orange water and eau-sucre. 
The room was decorated with cheap prints, 
the one opposite their table being “La belle 
Jardiniere.” As they waited the Frenchman 
said : 

“That reminds me of two little American 
girls I met once — such pretty children, and 
with a story so touching.” 

And he proceeded to repeat it. As it pro- 
gressed ’Liakim’s face went red and white 
alternately, and his heart thumped like«i trip- 
hammer. 

“ What was their name? ” he cried. 

“Ah, that I can not recall.” 

“Try to, try to, for God’s sake ! ” 

“I am truly desolated, but it is gone from 
me absolutely. Stay, though ! the names of 
baptism remain. There was a brother named 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


264 

Richard — Deek they called him, — and the 
little ones themselves were called for St. 
Genevieve and the Blessed Mother of God. 
The mother’s name was strange to me ; but I 
remember she had a pretty fancy that the lost 
father was not dead, only sailing always on a 
ship bearing that name. When she saw the 
clouds float by she called them the sails.” 

Then ’Liakim had astonished R6n6 Lenoir 
by pouring out his story and the hopes and 
fears that centred on his words. 

R^n6 had listened with the quick sympathy 
of his race, and when the Gloucester man 
finished he took his hand and said : 

“To-day is the 15th of August — the 
Assumption. It is a picture of Our Lady 
that has been a clue. It is a coincidence. 
Become her client. No? You’d rather pray 
direct to God? Well, but that is what I do 
precisely, only I choose a powerful advocate 
to present my plea. Very good, then ; you 
pray as seems best to you, but I will begin 
to-day a novena to Notre Dame des Victoires, 
and then when the Month of the Rosary is 
come — October — I will say a pair of beads 
each day until you find them. And you will 
— oh, you will, my friend ; for she, the Lady 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


265 

of Victories, is the sailors’ patron, their 
mother and guardian, and her ear is never 
deaf to the cry of the needy.” 

A few days later the fever broke out on 
board and they were quarantined for six 
weeks, losing several of their crew. They 
had had it at Montevideo, but got on so well 
that the men felt proof against it, and exposed 
themselves recklessly in the city. It was 
impossible to replace the dead seamen satis- 
factorily, so the captain determined to work 
home, short-handed as they were, with the 
result we know. 

Idella’s story was shorter. She had run to . 
the cabin to be near the beach, and was sit- 
ting breathless, leaning against the wall 
toward the Ridge. Suddenly there came a 
blast, to which the rest were as penny 
whistles ; and then a curious gritting and 
rustling sound, a crash on the roof, a tearing 
of wood, and the house seemed to heave and 
collapse. Then darkness settled on her. 

She wakened to a heavy weight on breast 
and arms, pinioned feet, and a blinding 
stream of blood. As this lessened she saw 
the house had been crushed by a sand-slip^ 


266 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


which had poured in, covering everything 
under heavy drifts ; and she was forced up 
on a heap of beams and wreckage, which 
held her prisoner, but had preserved her 
from being crushed. As the sun swung over, 
the west wind blowing free, a broad ray of 
light struck across the fair face of the Sand- 
Pipers’ Lady — the only part visible above the 
sand, — and it had comforted her inexpress- 
ibly as she lay there weak and weary. She 
could not free her hands to staunch the blood, 
and it had flowed for three or four hours. 
She grew more and more exhausted, but it 
seemed that as her strength declined her 
head grew clearer, and the fever and fret left 
it. She was conscious of a troubled memory 
of some great sorrow, but it was vague and it 
seemed to be over — a peaceful expectancy 
replacing it. 

Then came the hum of many voices, the 
scraping of shovels, and the sound o£ axes at 
work, and then — and then she slipped down 
on her knees and buried her face on ’Liakim’s 
broad breast, too happy for words. 

It was a wonderful day, and Ginevra Mary 
and Mary Ginevra never tired of talking it 
over and chorusing the praises of their Lady, 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


267 

to whose intercession they gave the whole 
credit of the three rescues. Some believed 
them, some laughed, some scolded, and some 
scoffed. But one day, about Christmas time, 
a carriage drove up and a gentleman got out. 
He was as square-shouldered as a soldier ; his 
fair brown hair crisped in close curls about 
his head ; his blue eyes, keen and clear, 
looked from a strong, clean-shaven face ; he 
moved alertly, and, entering, shook hands 
heartily with Jonas and ’Liakim congratulat- 
ing them on their separate and mutual good 
fortune. 

“Yes, sir,” the former said, “the squall’s 
over an’ gone ; but theer was a time when we 
was cert’n’y on beam-ends, all hands.” 

Then they detailed what he had only heard 
in general terms. When they finished he 
said : 

“ I’d like very much to see that little girl.” 

“They’ve both gone off to bespeak some 
holly to dress the picture of their Lady with 
fur Christmas,” answered ’Liakim. 

“Father Bradford,” began Jonas, suddenly, 
“I ben brought up to think papists was to be 
pitied an’ steered clear of, but theer’s queer 
thing’s ben happenin’ to me and mine. An’ 


268 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


thet theer Mollie — Ginnie too — is so sot ’bout 
their Lady, an’ thet Ren6 ” (he called him 
“Rainy”) “was so dead sure, too, that I’d 
kinder like to talk ’ith you ’bout it.” 

“Do. I’ll be glad to drop in whenever I 
am down here,” said the young priest in the 
hearty way that made him so popular. 
“Meantime ” — turning to ’Liakim — “why not 
bring the little girls up to the Christmas Mass 
at Dover? I am going to have a tree and a 
Crib for the children, and I think they’ll 
enjoy it.” 

He was right: they did enjoy it, “every 
smidjin,” to quote themselves; and the 
deeper meaning of the day they never forgot. 
Ginevra Mary, immediately on her return, 
declared her intention of becoming a Catholic 
“soon’s ever she learned ’nough ’bout it for 
Father Bradford to let her”; and, I am sorry 
to add, she had three pitched battles with as 
many schoolmates on the subject’ of her 
decision. 

Busy as he was with his three churches 
and his mission work. Father Bradford made 
time to instruct the twins and Idella care- 
fully, and on the ist of May received them all 
into the Church, — the latter bringing a faith 


THE JOSE-MARIA. 


269 

as loving and simple as did her children to 
lay at the feet of the gentle Christ, whose 
Virgin Mother had first shrined Him in their 
hearts. 

Jonas and ’Liakim reached their conclu- 
sions more deliberately, and many a visit did 
the young priest pay, and many a long talk 
did he have with the grave, slow-thinking 
men, before they announced they were ready 
to sign articles and ship on the Bark of Peter. 

Dick has not followed yet, but he and Hen- 
dershott have had several conversations on 
the subject, and both have concluded that 
as there can be only one real Captain, His 
rules, whatever they are, must be the right 
ones to navigate by. And the diver says : 
‘<’s fur as I kin make out, Barlow and Jud- 
kins hev hold o’ the tow-rope, an’ are hitched 
to the right tender.” 





BODGER; 


OR. HOW IT HAPPENED. 


BODGER; 

Or, How It Happened. 


I. 

W AL, ef this don’t beat all the rains ever 
/see !” And Captain Ephraim Salton- 
stall, of the schooner Lively Polly, bent his 
head, gave a tug to his sou’wester, and literally 
shouldered his way through wind and weather 
toward the wharf, where the Lively — as she 
was called in ordinary conversation — -was 
bobbing and straining at her moorings. 

As he reached the last warehouse, an un- 
usually fierce gust tore around the corner, 
and sent him staggering into its doorway for 
shelter. Here he stumbled over something, 
from which issued a low wail. 

‘‘Bless my stars!” said he, “wot’s this 
here ? ” And he bent to see, when a tiny fist 
was reached from the thin old shawl that 


bodger; or, how it happened. 273 

covered it, and he saw, or rather felt , — it was 
a child. 

gum !” said he, “it’s a live child ; an’ 
it’s going to be a dead un soon, ef somethin’ 
ain’t done, and done quick. Whar’s the 
watchman ? Turned in. Don’t blame him 
neether. Wisht some o’ them there infant 
asylums was handy that the Romanists plant 
round. But they ain^t. And the Lively's got 
to trip anchor and off down the Bay at day- 
break. What’ll I do with the critter, anyway? 
Take it up and kerry it aboard ? Wal, that’s 
easy enuf, but arter that ? Sho now ! Wisht 
I hadn’t a-come this way! — wisht I didn’t 
mind playing priest an’ levite, an’ passin’ by 
t’other side. Ork’ard bein’ a Samaritan to a 
infant I ” 

Here the bundle stirred again and moaned. 

“Wal, here goes 1 Come along, young un. 

I ain’t never sheered off f’um a signal of 
distress yet, and I ain’t a-goin’ to begin wi’ a 
cock-boat like you.” 

And he lifted the little one “ork’ardly” 
enough, opened his pea-jacket, wrapped it 
warm, and strode off to the Lively with a 
quick step. 

By the light of the oil lamp in his cabin he 


274 bodger; or, how it happened. 

examined his find with some curiosity, and 
saw an undersized child about two years old, 
wizened and pinched, and sleeping so heavily 
and breathing so unnaturally that he muttered: 
‘‘Drugged and turned out to die 

It was drenched through, but he had no 
clothes to replace its rags ; so, forcing some 
rum and water between its blue lips, he 
wrapped it up in a thick blanket, put his 
jacket under its head, and laid it on his sea- 
chest. Then he hurried into his hammock, 
and, although greatly exercised about the 
matter, fell asleep at once, and only wakened 
when the cabin-boy pounded on the door, 
with the brief announcement, “Day-break, 
sir!” 

He turned out, hurried into pilot coat and 
boots, and in a few minutes was thundering 
his orders from the little deck ; and it was 
not until the Lively was slipping down the 
Bay, with Minot’s red eye glaring on the 
starboard beam, that he remembered his find, 
and wondered what it was up to. 

He plunged below, ducked his tall head, 
and went into the cabin. There it was, sitting 
up among the folds of the blanket, dry and 
warm, with tangled hair rampantly erect, and 


BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 275 

keen bright eyes, that looked half frightened 
and half sly as they caught a glimpse of him. 

Wal, youngster,” he said, cheerily, ‘‘how- 
de-do ? Hungry?” But it made no answer, 
and as he drew near, it crouched aside, and 
put up its hand as if to ward off a blow. 

“Why, I ain’t a-goin’ to hurt ye, ye little 
goose ! On’y want to get ye somethin’ to eat. 
Come along ! ” And, lifting it up, he smoothed 
its hair with one horny hand, looked dubiously 
at his tin basin, and then he shook his 
head. 

“Guess ye had ’nuff washin’ last night to 
last a considerable time.” And he tramped 
into the little “saloon,” where the mate was 
already bolting his breakfast, and drinking 
cup after cup of black coffee. 

The fellow looked up, and was so amazed 
at what he saw — “the skipper wi’ a young 
un in his arms” — that he stopped short, with 
his mouth wide open and his cup in the air : 

“Whar’d that come from ?” he gobbled at 
last. 

“Rid up on th’ anchor, p’raps,” said the 
Captain, and, with a solemn wink, he set the 
child on his knee and gave it “share and 
share alike” of his own meal, except the 


276 BODGER ; OR* HOW IT HAPPENED. 

coffee, which he replaced by condensed milk, 
remembering vaguely to have heard some- 
where that children and milk make a good 
combination. 

When they were through, he began : 

“Now, youngster, wot’s your name? 
Tom ? ” 

A shake of the small head was the answer. 

“Ain’t? Is it Bill ? Jack? Jim?” 

A series of shakes. 

“’Ot a boy ’tall,” it said, finally 

“My glory ! ye ain’t a gal, be ye ? ” 

An emphatic nod proved it beyond doubt. 

“Wal, I’m jiggered!” he gasped; “this 
doos complercate matters 1 ” 

“Name’s Bodger,” she went on. 

“Bodger ? What’s that ? ” 

“Bodger, an’ I gits hitted.” And a vigo- 
rous action of her arm showed what that 
meant, at least. 

Captain Ephraim looked at her in dense 
astonishment, but all he said was: “Well, 
my little maid, ye must jes stay here a while, 
tell I git back.” 

But she clung to his collar, and buried her 
face so close in his jacket, that he could not 
get free without hurting her. So with a 


bodger; or, how it happened 277 

patient, vum!” he went on deck, with 
the child hanging like a monkey to his 
jacket. 

“See here, you fellows,” he called as he 
stepped from the companion way; “this 
here young un^s come aboard. She’s a gal- 
child, an’ has had ha’sh treatment. Look at 
that an’ that” — and he pointed to a long, 
blue weal across her face, and a livid bruise 
on her arm, — “an’ I want ye all to be good 
to her tell I git back to port, an’ put her 
som’eres where she^ll be keered for decent. 
Now hawl away thar, and git that mainsail 
shook out ; for the breeze is a-comin’ over 
thar, an’ no mistake. 

“Here you are, youngster!” And he 
swung her down on a coil of rope, gave a neat 
turn with one end of it, fastening her securely 
to the grating, and then fell to with a will to 
help his men. 

Some six months after, on a bright May 
night, the Lively came dancing home. “ The 
Capen’s maid,” as the waif came to be called, 
was the pet of all hands, and was fairly good 
as children go ; but she tyrannized over 
Captain Ephraim to a degree marvellous to 


278 BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 

behold, for he loved her as well as if she had 
been his own. 

On this night he stood leaning on the rail 
looking at, but not seeing, Minot’s eye that 
beamed a welcome, and Nixie’s Mate that 
lay like a shadow to the right. 

James O’Neil, one of his best seamen, 
came up to him : 

“Capen, ef I might make so free, what ye 
goin’ to do wi’ the maid when you git ashore?” 

“Dunno,” said Ephraim, setting his hair 
all on end, as he rubbed it worriedly; << dunno ; 
ain’t got any relations, and I’ve got so fond 
of the little critter I don’t want to put her 
inter the poor’us or a home, an’ I’ve pretty 
near made up my mind to take her off again 
on the Lively. 

Then he gave his hair another rub — the 
wrong way, of course. 

‘‘It’s a hard life for a gal-child,” said 
O’Neil, suggestively. 

“Yes, I know that,” responded Ephraim ; 
“but I don’t see no — ” 

“Wal, Capen, I ast you,” said O’Neil, as 
he paused, “ ’cause my wife ain’t got ne’er a 
chick nor child, an’ I think she’d be glad of 
the comp’ny. I know she’d take good keer 


BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 279 

of her. Jes look at my shirts an’ socks, an’ 
my hossif,”* he added, with pardonable 
pride. 

“ Wal, now, that’s a reel good idee, O’Neil, 
an’ I’ll think it over. An’ it was reel clever 
of ye to think of it, too.” 

“Oh, sho !” said O’Neil, “that’s all right. 
Ye see. I’m fond o’ the maid too, and ye ain’t 
such a bad skipper yerself.” 

Which, coming from two Yankee sailors, 
meant civilities indeed. ^ 

' * “Housewife ” — the sewing-case sailors take with 

them to sea. It is filled with needles, thread, 
buttons, tapes, etc. 



28 o bodger ; or, how it happened. 


II. 

0 ^ NEIL was an American ; but, several 
years before Captain Ephraim picked up 
“his maid,” he had married a pretty Irish 
girl just out from the old country, and had 
set up a modest housekeeping in two rooms 
on the South water-front. These were as 
neat as soap and water could make them; and 
as Mollie’s clear-starching and laundering 
were famous, she managed during the cruises 
of the Lively to add many little comforts to 
their furnishing — turkey-red curtains for 
winter, muslin ones for summer, some pots 
of geraniums, a hardy rose or two, and lately 
a bird. 

“Neat as a ship,” was Captain Ephraim’s 
comment, as he stood in the doorway, the 
little one clinging to him as usual; “and the 
young ooman as fresh as paint,” as Mollie 
came forward, her pretty blue eyes giving a 
welcome to her husband, and her rosy cheeks 
blushing a shade pinker before the stranger. 


bodger; or, how it happened. 281 

“Well, my girl,” said O’Neil, kissing her, 
with a hearty pride in her comliness ; “here’s 
the young un I told ye about.” 

“Ye’re kindly welcome, sir,” she said to 
the Captain; “an’ I’ll be glad indade to 
take the child. ” 

“Now, that’s reel clever!” he answered; 
“fur I ain’t never seen a place that I’d ruther 
leave a young un in ; an’ I think, mum, you’re 
the right sort to do well by a orphan.” 

After a little more talk the two men left ; 
but not without a sore struggle on the part 
of the maid, who clung to the Captain, and 
long after he was gone cried in a subdued, 
unchildlike fashion, that made Mollie’s heart 
ache. 

Finding words were of no use, she did the 
best thing she could have thought of — picked 
the child up in her arms, and cuddled her 
close, rocking her back and forth, and kissing 
and petting her in a way that made Bodger 
hold her breath in surprise. 

The Lively's trip was a flying one, and 
before the next night she had fluttered out 
like a little white moth into the far blue. 
But the Captain left ample provision for the 
child ; and Mollie’s days were busier than 


282 bodger; or, how it happened. 

ever, getting her fitted out, and yet trying 
not to let her own work suffer. 

As soon as the first decent suit was finished, 
she took her around to Father Byrne, and 
told him as much of the story as she could, 
while Bodger watched the pigeons from the 
other end of the room. In conclusion she 
added : 

“Indade, sir. I’m afeared she ain’t baptized 
at all at all. She has no more idea of God 
an’ His Holy Mother — blessed be their 
names! — than a haythen Pi-ute, as O’Neil 
says ; an’ she ain’t even got a Christian name, 
as near as I can sense it ; so I thought she’d 
better have a conditional baptism, any way.” 

*‘You are quite right, Mrs. — ” 

“O’Neil,” she said, with a courtesy. 

“Mrs. O’Neil. What name have you 
thought of for her?” 

“Well, sir, seein’ as it’s the month o’ May, 
I thought p’raps it ud be good to call her 
after the Blessed Virgin herself.” 

“That’s a pious thought, and the name 
will bring a blessing to the child.” 

And it seemed to; for a sunnier, sturdier 
youngster than the maid grew to be, was not 
found on the water-front. 


BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 283 

She loved Mollie and was fond of O’Neil : 
but her daddy,” as she called Captain 
Ephraim, she simply adored. And as for him, 
he soon fell into the habit of spending all his 
spare time in the little front-room, where, on 
winter evenings, the sausage sizzled on the 
stove and the kettle “puttered” on the hob; 
and in summer the salt wind freshened the 
heat, and the flowers nodded in their pots ; 
and “little Mary,” “me darlint,” or “my 
maid” (as she was variously called), hung 
about him as he told his sea-yarns, or listened 
while O’Neil and his Mollie chatted of the 
days to come, when they could have a little 
home of their own somewhere, and the sailor 
could turn farmer. 

At this last the Captain would smile; for he 
knew that when the sea once gets its grip on 
a man, it never looses it until his soul goes 
out with the ebb-tide* in some coast-village, 
or his bones go down into its silent keeping. 

These visits were high holidays for the 
maid ; but when the two men were at sea she 
was as busy as a bee in a tar-barrel, learning 
all Mollie could teach her about the house, 

* It is a curious fact that those who die in coast- 
villages, especially sailors, die as the tide is going out. 


284 BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 

sewing, going to school, and learning her 
Catechism with Father Byrne, who fancied 
the quaint child, and watched her develop- 
ment with interest. 

* 

For a long time the name by which she 
always called herself — ^^Bodger” — remained 
a puzzle, but Mollie fancied she got a clue to 
it about a year after the maid came to her. 
She was ironing one day in great haste, and 
accidentally touched the hot metal. 

<‘Ah, bother !” she cried. 

The little girl was on the floor, playing 
with some building-blocks ; but at this she 
stopped, cast a frightened look around her, 
then scrambled to her feet, and went to 
Mollie’s side. 

’Ot you want ? ” 

Nothin’, me darlint,” said Mollie. 

You say * Bodger ’ ! ” 

*‘I burnt me hand an’ said, * Bother !’” 

“’Es,” said the maid, “Bodger. ’At’s me.” 

Mollie’s quick Celtic wit leaped to a con- 
clusion. She dropped on her knees by the 
child. 

“Glory to God!” she said, “were you 
called that, me dear ? ” 

The maid nodded. 


BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 285 

‘*An’ hadn’t ye any other name ?” 

This time she shook her head. 

And Mollie thought : “Ah ! mustn’t that 
be a black, wicked heart that ud call a child 
nothin’ but a bother ? ” 

So saying she put her arms round the maid, 
and kissed her silently. 

As Bodger grew older, and began to under- 
stand her religion, she developed an ardent 
devotion to the Blessed Virgin, of and to 
whom she often spoke as “Me dear.” 

Mollie reproved her at first, for it seemed 
hardly reverent ; but the little girl said, 
simply : 

“You call me that ’cause you love me; I 
love her^ an’ so I call her it too. But av ye 
like, I’ll call her ‘My Lady,’ like ye called 
the pretty Queen in the ould country.” 

“Not the Queen, darlint, but me Lady 
Clontarf at Castle Darragh. ” 

“Well, her, then. Wasn’t she the biggest 
lady of ’em all, an’ the prettiest, an’ the 
swatest ? ” — for the maid had a touch of the 
brogue from association. 

“Indade she was,” said Mollie; “an’ it’s 
meself should know.” 

“Then,” said Bodger, “it’s a good name; 


286 BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 

for my Lady’s the greatest an’ prettiest an’ 
the swatest of all that ever lived.” 

And when Mollie, in some anxiety, told 
Father Byrne, he said : 

‘*Let her call Our Lady so if she wishes. 
There can never be any harm in the natural 
expressions of love used by an innocent 
child.” Then he asked for O’Neil and the 
Captain, in the latter of whom he was much 
interested; for the skipper, although <<no 
professor of religion,” had a deep, natural 
piety, and was a singularly honest, straight- 
forward nature. 



BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 287 


III. 



HE first time Father Byrne met the Cap- 


tain, he asked him several questions, and 
the characteristic answers of the skipper made 
an impression. 

“No, I don’t b’long to any church ’zactly, 
but o’ course I hev some chart-lines laid 
down,” he said. “Thar was a ole chap — 
Taylor, I think they called him — that was 
al’ays pokin’ round the docks, an’ in an’ out 
the shippin’. Reel, nice ole man, too, ven- 
er’ble and soft-spoken ; an’ oncet he said to 
me : ^ Young man, you are with a bad set o’ 

fellows. Get out of it. You wouldn’t want, 
ef you was in the tropics, to go herdin’ around 
with a lot o’ hungry sharks.’ An’ I says: 
‘Not much I wouldn’t.’ An’ a cold chill 
went down my back ; fer I’d seen one o’ my 
shipmates chawed and mauled in the Bay of 
Rio Janary jest that a- way. An’ then he says : 
‘These here fellows ull do ashore fur you 
what the sharks ud do afloat, on’y one would 


288 BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 

desttpy your body, an’ t’others your soul.’ 
Then says he: ‘ Respec’ God and women; 
be honest to your neighbors; an’ if you want 
to be ha’sh, try it on your own faults, an’ 
you’ll git through.’ ” 

“That’s good, sound Catholic doctrine,” 
smiled Father Byrne, “as far as it goes; but 
why not come farther ? Suppose a great 
ship-owner sent you out in a fine ship, which 
he promised to give you for your own, if you 
went on a certain cruise, and followed certain 
instructions, that were simple and sensible. 
What would you do ? ” 

“Z>^7 it ! ” said Captain Ephraim. “Fool ef 
I didn’t!” 

“Well,” continued Father Byrne, “the 
great Lord of Heaven has lent you your soul ; 
you are sent out on the sea of life ; this soul 
is more noble and is finer than any vessel 
that ever slipped off the stocks, and it will be 
yours for a happy eternity if you follow out 
the simple and sensible plan laid down in the 
Gospels.” 

“Wal, now,” said the Captain, “that does 
sound reasonable. But it ’pears to me the 
d’rections ain't so simple an’ easy.” 

“Come into the Catholic Church and you’ll 


BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 289 

think differently. The line between right and 
wrong is as clean-drawn as the equator.” 

But the old sailor shook his head. 

<‘Idunno,”he said; I dunno. O’Neil’s 
the best sailor Pve got, an’ Mollie’s a good 
gal ; an’ ef the maid grows like her through 
bein’ a Romanist, why. I’ll be glad of it. But 
fur me — ” And he shook his head again. 

Howsomdever, passon,” he added, ‘‘I like 
to hear ye talk, an’ I like a good, square 
stand-up and knock-down argyment ; so, ef it’s 
agreeable to you, we’ll go it again when the 
Lively gits back.” 

And they did many times ; but there was 
always a lurking doubt somewhere in the old 
soilor’s brain, and he came and went as before. 

Meantime, with' little Bodger everything 
dated from those comings and goings of her 
“daddy,” and the days between were counted 
carefully on a string of beans Mollie gave her. 
Her joy may, then, be imagined when one 
Christmas Eve, in the midst of a whirling 
snowstorm, and while the beans had two 
weeks still to run, in walked the Captain, 
looking like a polar bear in the eddy of flakes 
that clung to him and chased after him as he 
shut the door. 


290 BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 

When the excitement had subsided a little, 
he said to Mollie : 

“O’Neil’s got the mid-watch, and can’t get 
off till four o’clock ; but he says he’ll meet ye 
at the church, at the Mass.” 

Mollie’s pretty face, which had fallen when 
he began, cleared up with such a brilliant, 
happy smile that the Captain remarked : 

“Ye cert’nly do set an amazin’ store by 
that theer Mass o’ yourn ! ” 

“We do that!” said Mollie; “an’ small 
wonder, too, whin it’s the mim’ry of Calvary 
an’ the reminder of the Real Presence.” 

Then she turned to the maid. 

“Come, me darlint, ye must lay down and 
sleep a while, so ye can go rested.” 

“Who’s goin’ with ye?” asked the Cap- 
tain, suddenly. 

“Just the two av us,” said Mollie ; adding, 
shyly, “unless ye’d go with us yerself.” 

“O my daddy ! yes, do come 1 ” cried Dod- 
ger, flying to him and throwing her arms 
around his neck. “Do, do!” And every 
time she said it she kissed him. “It’s the 
gladdest day o’ the year, an’ av ye come it’ll 
be some like the Wise Men ; fur ye’ve come 
so far — on’y the Lively ain't a camel,” she 


BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 


291 

added, somewhat sadly. “But that don’t 
matter ; it was the comin^ that was the good 
part, not the way they come.’^ 

Wise Bodger ! 

Captain Ephraim thought a minute, then : 

“Yes, my maid”; adding in a half-apolo- 
getic tone to Mollie, “it ain’t safe fur you 
two gals to go alone.” 

But when he reached the great church, and 
saw the vast crowds hurrying in, saw them 
kneeling with absorbed devotion, saw the 
altar massed with flowers and shining like a 
moonrise ; when he saw the Bethlehem with 
its group of figures, and heard the exultant, 
glorious music, he realized that no Catholic 
is ever alone in his religion, and he was 
amazed at the splendor and magnificence 
about him. 

A dim memory of Ephraim and his idols 
swept over him, and he shook his head 
uneasily. But when Father Byrne turned 
from the altar, and in a few clear sentences 
recalled the significance of Christmas, and 
dwelt on its tender meaning, the Captain’s 
face cleared. The burden of the refrain was, 
“And a little child shall lead them”; and just 
as the priest uttered the words the first 


292 BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 

time, the maid, in sheer contentment, slipped 
her little paw into her daddy’s horny hand. 

It gave Captain Ephraim a thrill of strange 
emotion, and seemed like a tangible sum- 
mons to receive the baptism Father Byrne 
had several times urged upon him ; but the 
feeling passed as he watched the scene about 
him, and he had almost forgotten it, when 
suddenly across the silence of the church 
smote the clash of silvery bells, and every 
figure swayed forward, bowing, adoring. 

A strange awe fell on him, but he saw 
nothing except something round, which 
Father Byrne held high above his head. 
Then the Captain knelt too ; for ‘it was more 
ship-shape to do it,’ he thought, ‘ ef all the 
others was a-doin’ of it.’ 

But even after this when the Lively sailed 
it was only a good heathen that paced her 
decks as skipper. 



BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 293 


IV. 



HE Lively had been out on a long cruise, 


and one that paid so well that Captain 
Ephraim chuckled as he chinked his bag of 
dollars, and thought how near the little home 
was of which O’Neil and his Mollie dreamed. 

‘‘I’ll buy it, by gum ! An’ the maid an’ 
Mollie shell keep house, an’ me an’ O’Neil 
ull have a reel stylish time of it — a-sailin’ in 
our Lively here when time an’ tide an’ bizness 
sarve, an’ goin’ off to the country to take our 
ease when they don’t. I’ll git it round about 
Hullway, so’s the two gals kin see the top- 
sails arisin’, and achorage clus to hum ull be 
easy. Thet thar O’Neil now, he’s a proper 
kind of a chap. Guess I’ll take him out ez 
mate.nex’ time, fur ef / buys the house he kin 
put his savin’s into a share in the Lively.''" 

He was so full of his plan that he was 
eager to get ashore ; but, as the little craft 
slipped along under the green hills of his har- 


294 bODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 

bor, a round-robin was presented to him to 
the vjffect : 

* Bein’ as how he hadn’t got no kith nor 
kin, an’ all of them a-bein’ fambly men — ’cept 
the cabin-boy, an’ his name was put in to 
make the robin round — would he ’low all 
hands to go ashore till midnight, when any 
watch he’d name ud come back prompt, so 
help ’em davy ? ’ 

<‘Sho now!” thought the Captain; <‘sho 
now ! The maid ain’t mine except by rights 
o’ salvage, but I’m disappinted, that’s a fac’. 
Howsomdever, here goes till midnight.” 

And he told them that if the two senior 
men (for in spite of that fine-sounding phrase 
“any watch he’d name,” there were only four 
men on the Lively beside the Captain and the 
cabin-boy) would be back promptly at mid- 
night, they might go. Thereupon, with 
throats of brass and lungs of leather, they 
hurrahed “ three-times-three,” and shortly 
after the anchor was dropped Captain 
Ephraim was pacing the deck — for the cargo 
was valuable — attentively watched by the 
cabin-boy, whose one ambition in life was to 
grow up to a skipper. 

O’Neil hurried home ; and his Mollie, 


bodger; or, how it happened. 295 

“Lookin’ as fresh as the morn, darlint,’’ 
met him, with the maid at her apron-string. 

“Glory to God ye’re home, my man!” 
she said. “An’ it’s meself as hopes to have 
a bit of yer soci’ty for a few weeks; ye’re that 
agreeable, ye see,” she added, with a laugh. 

But the maid lifted up her little pipe. 

“My daddy — where is he ?” 

“He sent ye his love, an’ he’ll be here 
bright an’ early the morn,” said O’Neil. 

But the maid thought the morning was too 
far off, and her daddy so very unkind that 
her heart swelled. Wasn’t she dressed in 
her best, and hadn’t she almost forgot to say 
her beads properly at her May devotions for 
fear she would not be home in time to catch 
the first glimpse of him as he came down the 
street ? And now — now he wasn’t coming at 
all! 

She ran back as fast as her feet could 
paddle, to the church — for, although almost 
eight o’clock, its doors were still open — and 
crept to the railing before the altar of Our 
Blessed Lady, where she sat down for a good 
cry. After sobbing out the first of her grief, 
she looked up to the sweet countenance 
above her, and whispered : 


296 • BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 

“Wasn’t it mean of him, my Lady, not to 
come home to his maid ? ” 

But the taper flickering in the wind that 
stirred the flowers on the altar lent a myste- 
rious smile to the face ; and the maid, repent- 
ing her of blaming her daddy, said : 

“But maybe it wasn’t his fault. Was it, 
my Dear ? ” 

The flickering light lent a still sweeter 
smile to the carven mouth, and the child 
went on : 

“So I’ll just say me prayers, and then 
go-go—” 

Into her little head popped an idea, and 
who shall say it was a chance thought ? 

“My Lady,” she said, quite loud, her 
cheeks red with excitement and her eyes 
shining, “ I’ll go to him. I know the way as 
well as well. It’s dark and scary down on 
the wharfs, but I don’t mind, if you’ll take 
care of me.” 

And the wind rustled through the flowers 
once more, and out of the garland laid across 
the statue’s outstretched hands fell a piece 
of May-flower. 

“I’ll take that, my Dear,” she said. “It’s 
one of your own flowers, an’ I’m thinkin’ 


bodger; or, how it happened. 297 

maybe it’s a mark you’re willin’ I should go.” 

And down the street she trotted to where a 
street-car stood, the conductor of which was 
a great friend of hers. 

Do you want a ride, my maid ? ” he asked. 

‘‘Please, Mr. White, I do,” she said ; “but 
I ain’t got any money.” 

“Well, I calculate your weight won’t break 
down the car, nor one free ride won’t bust the 
Comp’ny,” he answered, agreeably. “Hop 
on!” 

And they had a pleasant ride through the 
crowded streets, and to the far-distant wharf, 
off which lay anchored the Lively. 

Here the maid stepped down with a polite 
“Thank you.” But Mr. White said : 

“Can’t leave you here, young un, at this 
hour, by yourself.” 

“I’m goin’ to meet my daddy.” 

“Sure ?” he asked, dubiously. 

“Yes, sir,” and she nodded her head till he 
was quite dizzy watching it. 

“Well,” he said, “if it’s all right, it is all - 
right. But reely now, my maid, I wouldn’t 
advise ye to do that Chinese mandarin busi- 
ness with your head too often, for it might 
come off some day.” 


298 BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 

At which witty remark they both laughed ; 
and the maid skipped down the wharf, and 
was soon lost in the shadows. 

‘‘Now,” she said, “I’ll get a boat, and off 
I’ll go. And won’t my daddy be surprised 
when he sees me a-climbin’ up the — ” 

Here a big voice said: “Clear out, little 
gal ! We don’t want no children a-fallin’ off 
these here wharfs at this time o’night.” 

Her heart sank to her boots. It was a 
great, big, fierce policeman. 

“Please, sir,” she said, meekly, “I’m here 
to see my daddy.” 

“ Yer daddy ? What is he ? A stevedore ? ” 

“He’s skipper o’ the Lively y sir. Don’t 
you see her off yonder ?” And she pointed 
to where the pretty schooner lay in the light 
of the young moon. 

“Oh! is he?” said the big policeman. 
“ Is he coming ashore soon ? ” ' 

“I don’t know,” she faltered; for, some- 
how, he did not look like a man who would 
approve of her plan. 

“Well,” said he, still gruffly, but kindly, 
“you jest run home an’ wait for him. He 
wouldn’t be too pleased to find ye round 
sich a place as this, little gal. ” 


BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 299 

But her hardy spirit rose, and as he turned 
away she whisked into the shadow of a post, 
drew her gown close about her, and bided her 
time. 

It was so much longer, however, than she 
bargained for, and the watchman patrolled so 
steadily up and down, that she fell into a 
sound sleep. 


300 BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 


V. 

B ODGER was awakened out of her sleep 
by hearing voices very close to her, and 
this is what they said : 

“The fool has played into our hands. 
He’s sent his crew ashore, and nobody’s 
aboard except him and the cabin-boy. The 
men ain’t coming back till midnight, and 
Bill Gryce won’t be worth much when he 
does come ; for I give it to him hot and I 
give it to him strong.” And he made a motion 
of putting a glass to his lips. 

The chill night air, the surprise of her 
surroundings, the sudden waking, and the 
fright might well have excused an older 
person for making an outcry; but after the 
first start the brave child crossed herself, and 
sent up a prayer to her Lady, listening eagerly 
to what followed. And how awful it was ! 

“So you meet me here in an hour’s time, 
and we’ll get off. It’ll be an easy matter to 
kill him, chuck him overboard, ransack the 


BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 3OI 

Lively, and get off before the lubbers find out 
anything’s wrong.” And then a laugh 
followed. 

The poor little maid could scarcely draw 
her breath, and trembled so she Was afraid 
they would hear her teeth chatter. But she 
held on tight to her knees, and prayed as she 
had never prayed before in her life. 

As the two men moved away one of them 
said : ‘‘Where’s the boat ? ” 

“Tied to the pile, just here” — rapping 
with his heel the very board on which the 
child crouched. 

Then they were gone, and Bodger wrung 
her small hands. 

“Oh! I know they mean my daddy I 
What shall I do, what shall I do ? O my 
Lady ! tell me what I must do to help him. 
He saved my life, you know, my Dear, and I 
ought to save his ! ” 

Like an inspiration came the thought of 
the boat : 

“Thank ye my Lady!” she said; “I can 
row.” 

And she could row fairly well — what child 
brought up on the river-front can not ? — but 
how was she to get at it ? 


302 BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 

She crawled cautiously along the edge of 
the wharf, feeling every inch of space, and at 
last she touched a small line, slip-knotted 
over the plank. She pulled on it slowly and 
carefully, and soon a lap-streak’s nose bobbed 
against the pile. She could hardly see it, for 
the moon was gone, the sky was thickening 
to seaward, and the stars were wide apart and 
dim. Added to this was the shifting, uncer- 
tain light of the water. 

Then came the question how she was to get 
into the boat ; for it lay a full six feet below 
the level of the wharf. But she had unlimited 
faith, and her need was urgent. She turned 
her white, resolute little face up skyward : 

“Dear God, look out for me now; and, 
my Lady, please help me ; for I’m goin’ to 
jump, and I think I’m goin’ to fall into the 
water. If I do. I’ll have some work gettin’ 
into the boat ; but I’m goin’ to hold tight to 
the painter, and I know you’ll do the rest 
for me.” 

And the plucky little creature did jump, 
but, as God and Our Lady willed, she fell 
inside the boat, on a pile of sacking, which 
was doubtless meant for the plunder. She 
felt about for the oars, and was soon drifting 


BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 303 

slowly down on the Lively ; for, although the 
boat was heavy, she had the tide with her. 

Captain Ephraim had spent the evening 
up and down, as he expressed it, conscious of 
uneasiness, but not knowing what made him 
so. This time was one of his “down spells,” 
and he sat in his cabin, surveying a doll, a 
bright red sash, a pea-green silk handker- 
chief, and a pair of shoes he had brought his 
maid. 

A slow smile was lingering on his face, 
when suddenly thump, thump! — on the 
water-line came a succession of blows. 

“Land 1 ” said the startled sailor. “I ain’t 
give e’er a job o’ caulkin’ to the mermaids, as 
I kin remember ; but ef them ain’t a caulker’s 
hammers, or somethin’ else” (Yankee cau- 
tion), “why, I don’t know ! ” 

And he ran up the companion ladder, and 
to the side where the sound was ; for a sailor 
can locate a sound as quick as a cat. 

“O daddy ! ” he heard a thin, piping wail ; 
“drop over a rope or somethin’; it’s me, 
your maid.” And then the thumping re- 
commenced. 

“ Daddy” lifted his cap (his rising hair had 
nearly done it for him). “ Good Lord 1 ” he 


304 BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 

said, “ye ain’t gone an’ took my maid, hev 
ye ? ” 

But the voice called again : 

“Hurry, daddy! I’m so cold and” — here 
it broke — “so skee-e-e-ered ! ” 

“Never heern o’ ghosts bein’ skeered,” 
he said. “They mos’ly spend their time 
littin’ other people tend to that.” 

And he dropped the small rope-ladder over 
^he side, and scrambled down in time to pick 
up a bunch that was a very limp maid indeed. 

When, amid sobs and gasps, she told her 
story he could not believe it ; but, as she 
insisted so upon its truth, he began to feel 
she was right. Besides, there was the boat, 
and what was more important, a red cap, 
such as Lascars wear; and the Captain rec- 
ognized it as belonging to a man who had 
helped ship some of his cargo at New York, 
and whom he had rated soundly for cutting 
into a bale of silk, dismissing him on the 
spot, with a threat of the police. 

But he paid more attention to his maid 
than anything else ; and his keen eyes were 
very wet when he saw her poor bruised, 
blistered hands, and listened to the details 
of her adventure. 


BODGER ; OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 305 

As sh^ told him of her innocent and fervent 
prayers, of her reliance on the Holy Ones, 
his head dropped lower, and he folded his 
hands unconsciously, while through his mind 
ran, like a refrain : ‘‘And a little child shall 
lead them.” 

Again and again it came, and he passed 
in review the whole train of events: — how 
eight years ago he had picked up the deserted 
child ; how she had led him to love, and 
given him a home-feeling ; how she had taken 
him to church that Christmas morning — a 
church where a nameless awe had overcome 
him, as the bells rang, and the priest held 
aloft what to the eyes seemed a simple wafer 
of bread, but before which the Heavens 
themselves were bowed; how the priest told 
of the Child that came to lead captive death 
and sin and woe ; and how earnestly Baptism 
had been urged upon him. 

Then he said: “My maid, we’ll go to- 
morrow to that there church, and ef God 
A’mighty an’ His Lady Mother will take me. 
I’m theirn till the end o’ my life — an’ arter- 
ward too, I hope.” 

And the maid answered: “Yes, daddy,” 
and fell asleep on his shoulder. 


3o6 bodger ; or, how it happened. 

At daybreak great was Mollie’s relief to see 
the skipper and Bodger coming in. The 
poor woman had cried her pretty, grey eyes 
almost out ; and O’Neil was still in the 
streets, hunting at every police station for 
the lost child. 

But Mollie’s joyful outcries were subdued 
by the look of solemn dignity on the skip- 
per’s weather-beaten face, and the strange 
light that shone in his eyes ; and when, after 
early Mass, he rose and went forward to the 
front to receive Baptism, with the maid’s 
hand locked in his, and his grey hair stirring 
in the wind of Our Lady’s May morning, she 
leaned back, and, like the warm-hearted little 
woman she was, cried again heartily. 

He took the name of Thomas, “fur he was 
a doubter, same ez me,” he said; “an’ the 
Lord showed him special mercy, same ez me 
agin ; an’ them’s the on’y two pints of resem- 
blance there’ll ever be ’twixt me an’ a saint. 
I’m af eared.” 

God, who marks a sparrow’s fall, marked 
Captain Ephraim’s deed of charity, and in 
the fulness of His own time gave him the 
great reward of faith. 

And that’s how it happened. 


BODGER ,• OR, HOW IT HAPPENED. 


307 


And the would-be murderers and robbers ? 
Punishment fell swiftly upon them. When 
they returned and found the boat gone, each 
accused the others of carelessness ; a quarrel 
sprang up, knives were drawn, and in a few 
minutes the Lascar was drifting seaward, to 
fatten the gulls and fishes, with two ghastly 
holes in his breast and throat. Of the two 
that struck the blows, one was killed in a 
drunken brawl that same year, after a melan- 
choly career of crime ; and the other is still 
serving a life-term in the penitentiary. 













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